Roses and Thorns
by Kimmychu
Summary: He pauses for an instant, then chokes out the most excruciating words he’ll ever say, “You made your choice, and so have I, Danny. Whatever the hell there was between us … it’s over.” FlackHawkes, DannyFlack, DannyLindsay and MacStella.
1. Part 1

**Roses and Thorns**

Fandom: CSI:NY

Author: Kimmychu

Rating: FRT

Pairings: Flack/ Hawkes, Flack/Danny, Danny/Lindsay, Mac/Stella

Content Warning: Goes AU after episode 3x19. Oh, and the story has this thingy called angst.

Spoilers: 2x23, 2x24, 3x11, 3x15, 3x19, and since this is a sequel to my story, **RNA and DNA**, spoilers for that too.

Summary: He pauses for an instant, then chokes out the most excruciating words he'll ever say, "You made your choice, and so have I, Danny. Whatever the hell there was between us … _it's over_." A multiple-ship story including Flack/Hawkes, Danny/Flack, Danny/Lindsay and Mac/Stella.

Disclaimer: You see, the cast on the show are actually clones. The real people are right here in my closet! Why yes, my closet _is_ humongous!

**( Oooo …... oooO )**

Author's Notes: Woo, this is something new for me. An angst story with multiple pairings! I know, I know, **To DD or Not to DD** had multiple pairings too, but that was a funny, cracky story. This particular one follows canon right up to 3x19, and is also a sequel to my story, **RNA and DNA**. Not necessary to read it though it'll give insight into how Flack and Hawkes got together. This story will be completed in two more installments. Don't worry, I'm writing this one to the finish mucho fasto so the wait for installments will be minimal. And I have a hunch there will be ship-related comments or rants, so please, I hope you'll refrain from doing so until you've read the entire story. I have a lot of commentary that I'll post at the end and you might wanna read it before commenting on ship-related stuff, okay? Thank you! I hope you enjoy the story, and thank you for your reviews. I appreciate them.

**( Oooo …... oooO )**

**i. "Let it go, let it roll right off your shoulder ..."**

When he was a boy, what Don Flack, Jr. really wanted to be was an astronaut.

Sure, it's the dream of many little boys around the world, but Flack _really_ wanted to be an astronaut. The yearning was so bad that his five-year-old self bawled his eyes out for days as soon as his mother told him he was destined to be a police officer like his father instead. It would be the first in a long line of disappointments in his life.

There was the time when he was seven and had waited for weeks for his dad to bring him to a Yankees baseball game, just to discover his father had forgotten to buy tickets as well as the promise of them spending a day at the stadium together. There was the time when he was ten and he'd won an award for some essay he wrote that he can't recall anymore. He remembers that only his mother showed up for the ceremony. His dad hadn't. The man had forgotten all about it due to work.

There was the moment when he was eleven and saw for the first time, his father hit his mother. It happened so fast he assumed he'd been seeing things, peeking through the gap in his parents' bedroom door like he was. Then he saw the tears rolling down his mom's beautiful face gone all scrunchy and sad, the contusions darkening her pale skin, and he knew his life would never be the same again.

There was that moment when he was thirteen years old, that moment when a giant bully two grades above him jostled him around like he was nothing more than a stick. He'd been so sure, so sure that he could take on the jerk. That he could beat the guy like he wished he could beat his dad for hurting his mom. He'd been wrong. He had the black-and-blue swellings on his face to taunt him for weeks afterwards. Bruises just like his mother's.

And _then_, there was that moment when he was fourteen and all his friends were beginning to take an interest in girls and what they had beneath their shirts and skirts. He was more than happy to join his pals in ogling their female classmates and hotties from other classes.

The thing was, he was ogling the guys too.

In retrospect, Flack, now very much an adult man who's accepted his bisexuality for what it is, can't help laughing at the naïve, teenage self he used to be. Yeah, most people won't blame him for being so terrified of being different from his peers then. Bad enough that teenagers get ridiculed to death merely for having acne or wearing spectacles or braces. To be outed for liking girls _and _boys?

If his friends didn't desert him after that, he's certain his parents would have. As much as his mother loves him, he knows his father will simply beat acquiescence into her and coerce her into doing and feeling whatever the hell he wanted her to.

God, he hates that bastard. That two-faced bastard whom everybody in the city thinks is the greatest hero on the whole fucking earth. His wife-abusing coward of a _dad_. _Whoopee_.

He scowls to himself and takes a deep breath in order to relax himself. Ruminating about his father never fails to piss him off in a bad way. And right now, the last thing he wants is to feel cross.

He opens his eyes after he senses a light touch upon his forearm.

"Hey. What are you doing here on your day off? Have you been sitting here all morning?"

Hawkes' brown, friendly eyes gaze into his own half-lidded, blue ones.

"Nah, just thought to stop by," he says with a soft smile. "And don't worry, time really flies when you're daydreamin'."

Hawkes drags out a stool and seats himself beside Flack at the table in the labs' break room. The CSI is holding a white plastic bag that he places on the table top. It has a red dragon insignia on it. Ah, Chinese food. Hawkes' favorite.

"You _do_ realize that you come here every day when you're working, right?" Hawkes says in jest, taking two cartons out of the plastic bag.

"I wanted to see ya."

Flack's smile widens at the flush that's apparent even on the other man's dark skin. Heh, who would have thought it's this easy to make a guy like Hawkes blush? Combined with that small, abashed smile, the man is a sweet sight to behold.

Flack makes an inquiring noise when Hawkes hands him one carton.

"I always buy extra, in case somebody else is hungry too."

Flack accepts the hot, packaged meal with a silent nod and one outstretched hand. He uses his fingers to impart his thanks, brushing them against Hawkes' for a mere instant. He tries hard to not let his fingers linger; it's been more difficult that he expected to maintain his touches at a friends-only level while they are at work.

"What were you daydreaming about?" Hawkes asks after some time, munching on some sze chuan chicken.

Flack stares at the other man, memorizing the shine of black, cropped hair and smooth skin that contrasts wonderfully with the cream-colored turtleneck sweater so snug around Hawkes' fit, lean torso. The best thing about eyeballing the attractive CSI now is that he knows exactly what Hawkes looks like underneath all that cloth.

_Man, I've struck black gold this time_, he thinks to himself. Once he realizes the double entendre in that, he bites his lower lip to stop his growing smile.

One of Hawkes' eyebrows rises.

Before Hawkes says anything, Flack responds to the guy's question with, "Just random stuff. I like to let my mind wander."

It's not quite the truth but it's not quite a lie either.

Their relationship hasn't progressed far enough for him to be sharing _those_ kinds of personal details. Even with somebody like Hawkes, who's been a professional colleague for some years.

And now, his close friend and lover for barely one and a half months.

_Someday, Sheldon, I promise I'll tell you. Someday. _

"So. Did ya do what I told ya to do?" Flack asks in a flippant tone to change the topic of conversation.

Hawkes' entire face lights up.

"Well, I have to admit I was quite baffled as to why you'd want me to take that particular day off, but yes, I did it," the CSI says with an amused smirk. "Are you going to tell me why?"

"Uh hmm."

Flack sets his carton of fried noodles down on the table, then digs his right hand into the side pocket of his dark grey suit jacket. He's been waiting for this moment for a while, and he takes his time in pulling out two rectangular, colorful pieces of paper with the NBA logo on them.

"Don … are those what I think they are?"

"Yep." Flack's teeth gleam through his pleased grin. "Two front row tickets to the Knicks versus Nets game at Madison Square Garden."

Hawkes' eyes go wide at the price printed on the tickets.

"These tickets cost -"

"Hey."

Hawkes falls silent at the low timbre of Flack's voice.

"The price doesn't matter. Okay?"

The brilliant, delighted smile that spreads across Hawkes' features is already worth more than the near seven hundred dollars he'd paid for the two tickets. Money, he can earn that back sooner or later.

But making somebody he loved happy?

That's priceless.

"What, ya think I've forgotten what ya said 'bout wantin' to see an NBA game for real instead a' just seein' it on TV?" Flack taps the side of his head. "Don Flack, Jr. never forgets."

Sure enough, Hawkes chuckles at that.

"I don't know what to say," Hawkes says quietly. "Apart from thank you, that is."

"Why don't ya think 'bout it … and let me know _tonight_, hmm?"

Flack awaits some mischievous riposte from his lover, and instead, finds out all over again what it feels like to have his heart ripped out from his chest.

It isn't Hawkes he sees sitting next to him anymore. It's a very familiar, brown-haired detective with glasses and a goatee, a man whom he'd never imagined capable of hurting him so deeply. There's that cat-like grin on Danny's face, brightened by joy. Danny's grasping two tickets in his hand, just like Hawkes is in the present time, smiling at him with all the love in the world.

"_I can't believe it! Ya got front row tickets to the upcoming Mets game!"_

"'_Course I did. Ya think I'd forget 'bout somethin' that important to ya? Don Flack, Jr. never forgets."_

"_I hope to God that ya brought a change a' clothes, Don, 'cause ya ain't goin' home until I've had my way with ya, ya hear me?"_

He doesn't have a clue whether Hawkes actually responded to him or not. He's too busy swallowing down the bile that's risen up his throat.

Fuck, he _hates_ this. He should have put Danny behind him ages ago, and yet, here he is, feeling queasy solely from another unwelcome memory involving the blue-eyed CSI. It doesn't matter where he goes or who he's with or what he does. Danny's always there in his thoughts, haunting him like a dream that's both magnificent and heartrending, following him with those heavy-lidded eyes gone cold, distant.

It takes him some time to realize that those blue eyes are boring into him right now through the transparent glass wall of the break room.

Danny's standing alone outside, a brown folder hanging loosely from his left hand. He's wearing one of his typical Henley shirts with a tank top underneath, his usual jeans and boots, the usual bracelets around his wrist. He appears the same in every detail, except for his eyes.

They're stricken. Trapped. Filled with muted shock and disbelief as they stare at Flack.

Flack … and _Hawkes_.

Returning Danny's gaze with equal vehemence, Flack feels absolutely nothing. He's done the crying and drinking himself stupid parts and there's nothing to chain him to the past any longer. No childish drama, no secrets, no deceit, _no more lies, Danny_.

He feels absolutely nothing. At least, that's what he believes. Whatever's showing on his face, it's enough to cause Danny to break their eye contact, to make the man look downwards in a seemingly guilty manner.

Flack clenches one hand into a tight fist on his thigh, out of sight.

Damn straight. Danny _should_ feel guilty.

_He's_ the one who cheated on him behind his back.

With _her_.

" … later we can go down to Ludwig's?"

Flack snaps out of livid stupor and turns his head to look at Hawkes. There's no hint of annoyance on the guy's face at all. No indication either that he knows Danny is behind him and watching them from outside the room.

Damn, Flack has no idea what the heck Hawkes' been saying.

He takes a chance and replies, "Sure, Ludwig's sounds good. Haven't been there for while."

He consciously curves his lips upwards in a semblance of a smile.

And he's reminded once more that he can't fool Sheldon Hawkes, much less with a fake smile.

"Are you alright?"

The evident concern and affection in the CSI's brown eyes does wonders for his ire and blood pressure.

"Yeah, 'course I am."

Hawkes releases a relieved laugh. "Okay, I thought I bored the hell out of you with my babbling just now."

Flack's smile transforms into a genuine one. "You'll never bore me, Doc. Never."

When Hawkes' head dips down in mild embarrassment at his straightforward declaration, he glances back through the glass wall of the break room at Danny, who hasn't budged an inch. Now, it isn't just the man's eyes that are speaking volumes. His face is, too.

Miserable is one hell of an understatement to describe Danny's expression.

It terrifies and calms Flack down simultaneously that he doesn't give a shit about it. Not anymore.

Danny's made his choice.

So has he.

Knowing Danny will see it, he does what would have been unthinkable just weeks ago. Slowly, he slides one leg between Hawkes', rubbing the side of one foot against his lover's ankle. Unlike Danny, Hawkes doesn't panic and push him away in the fear that people might see the public display of affection.

"Careful now. I have to get back to work soon," Hawkes murmurs with a wink. "Unless you'd like a … quickie in the men's room."

Flack lets out a boisterous laugh. They have a mutual understanding that any physical affection outside of their apartments will never go beyond the fleeting touch or caress, unless they're alone. Doesn't mean they can't banter and infuse sexual innuendo into their words though.

"I dunno, Doc. Ya sure you're _up_ to it?"

He waggles his thick eyebrows for effect.

It's Hawkes' turn to laugh in amusement. "I may be older than you, but don't think for a second that I'm any less … vigorous."

Flack licks at his lower lip and saturates his answer with every ounce of passion he feels for the other man.

"I know."

Hawkes suddenly looks down at his watch, hiding his face from view. Flack snickers under his breath. Heheh, that makes blush number _two_ today. His snickering goes on even after Hawkes playfully kicks him in the shin.

He knows how to get Hawkes all red in the face right quick, but that doesn't mean Hawkes is some straitlaced, shy guy who swoons at the thought of anything sexual. Hell _no_, that's as far from the truth as it can get. Should any of their co-workers and friends learn just how kinky the former ME can be in bed and out, they'll never see the guy the same way ever again.

"Okay, back to work with me," Hawkes says, closing his empty food carton and putting it back in the Chinese takeaway plastic bag. "Are you finished with your noodles?"

"Are ya kiddin'? I gobbled the whole thing up in three mouthfuls."

"That's because you were born with a black hole for a stomach."

Flack simply displays a pout that gets Hawkes sniggering for a few seconds.

After chucking the remainder of their lunch into the trash bin, Hawkes saunters up to him and says, "I'll see you tonight, then."

"You betcha." Flack fingers the basketball tickets in his hand, and adds, "I'll hold on to these till the game."

"Sure." Hawkes' countenance softens. "Thank you. I really appreciate it, Don. It means a lot to me."

"You can show me yer thanks tonight."

Hawkes' teeth flash white in the sunlight streaming in through the windows, and the grin says more than words ever will.

Flack watches the CSI walk to the break room entrance, admiring the way Hawkes' black trousers delineate his hips and legs, the way Hawkes carries himself with such refinement and self-effacing poise. It's strange, so strange that just a month or two ago, he could barely stand in the same room as the guy and now … things have changed.

Life is change.

This particular change, Flack decides, is _very _good.

Once the pain dissipates, that is.

He swivels his head sideways and gazes past the glass wall, and notices there's nobody in the corridor outside.

Danny is gone.

**( Oooo …... oooO )**

It's ironic that the laboratory break room, a place to relax and take respite from the daily grind of hectic work, has become a battlefield between two CSIs.

It's worse, Flack thinks as he stands outside that very room, it's worse because those two CSIs are men who've both affected his life in very multi-layered ways.

And he knows _precisely_ what they're quarrelling about.

To the eyes of a stranger, Danny and Hawkes appear to be having only a slight disagreement. They're standing face to face, their lower bodies blocked from sight by the table and stools under it. Hawkes' hands are lifted at midriff height, palms outward in a placating albeit firm manner, waving around whenever he's saying something to Danny. Danny's arms are crossed over his chest. Flack's been on familiar terms with Danny long enough to know that the man does that all the time and that it doesn't mean anything much.

The clenched fists, however, tell another tale.

It's just a matter of time before one of those fists plows into somebody's face.

A lab tech strides past him, and the woman's hurried steps become the background track that pounds in tandem with his heartbeat.

_Ba-thump_.

Danny pushes into Hawkes' personal space, arms flying open to the sides in an angry motion. He's mad now, no doubt about it. Mad and snarling.

_Ba-thump_.

Instead of backing off, Hawkes stands his ground, squaring his shoulders. Staring Danny in the eyes but not shoving back in retaliation.

_Ba-thump_.

Danny does an aggressive movement with his arm, drawing an invisible arc in the air and it prompts Flack into envisioning Danny as a force of nature, like a volcano. Fiery and lethal and momentous in his wrath, halting the world dead in its tracks while he erupts with rage from his very core.

_Ba-thump_.

Hawkes finally quits being on the defensive, putting one hand upon Danny's chest and straightening his arm to move Danny back, to give himself some room. The caution in the action, the care that belies the strength within Hawkes, makes Flack think of Hawkes as a force of nature in his own right. Like an earthquake. Momentary, tremendous thundering that shakes the foundations of the earth for sheer seconds, but leaves behind an overwhelming aftermath that remains for ages after.

And Hawkes shatters the ground beneath Danny's feet with words Flack is able to discern merely by reading the man's full lips.

_You left him._

Danny's knuckles turn white in fury, fists so compressed Flack swears they look like they're about to pop from the pressure. Danny's eyes are wide and teeth bared in a rictus of indignation, brows low in a fierce scowl, and Flack takes an instinctive step forward towards the glass wall as Danny's arm starts to lift.

Flack senses the presence of other people behind him, other lab techs in their white coats witnessing the unfolding fight with hushed whispers and eyes glazed with diffident curiosity. He itches to tell them to shut up and get the hell back to their jobs, except he can't even part lips gone dry and frozen. This isn't their business.

_This wasn't supposed to happen_, a boy-like voice within him whispers.

Danny's arm looks like it's drawing back in slow motion. A fist aims straight for Hawkes' face that's slack in alarm.

There's a roaring in Flack's ears now, akin to the sound of war drums beating.

Is it the echo of that lab tech's shoes, or his heartbeat that he hears?

He isn't sure. All he's sure of is that his life is about to change forever. Again.

_Danny, no, don't do it -_

Danny's fist trembles in the air.

Hawkes stares into Danny's eyes, unmoving, rigid in preparation for the impact of a hard hammer of flesh in his face.

A very tense minute ticks by with the length of an eon.

And then, it's all over.

The wrath inside Danny abruptly dies like a puff of smoke. Flack sees its demise in the lowering of Danny's arm, the slump of those proud shoulders, the dip of the man's head that turns to the side in silent defeat. To conceal the shame from Hawkes, who appears as if he really had been clouted in the face.

Flack's breath leaves his chest in a heavy exhalation.

No, he's wrong. It's not over yet, not by a long shot.

Without warning, all the whispering and nosey gossip surrounding him barrages his ears, and it's the last straw that breaks the back of his patience. He spins around, confronting the small crowd of lab technicians around him. Their chattering diminishes into silence.

"Don't you guys have _somewhere else _to _be?_" he grinds out, putting on his most ferocious interrogation expression. "_Work to do?_"

The hallway clears out in record time.

By the time he turns back to face the break room, Danny has moved a half dozen feet away from Hawkes, blatantly ignoring the other CSI by showing his back to the man. Flack watches Hawkes stretching out a tentative hand towards Danny's shoulder, then pull back at the last moment.

There's no chance for peace now. Not after Hawkes having driven in the most agonizing spike of all through Danny's defenses.

_You left him._

Flack holds his breath for an instant when he locks gazes with Hawkes at last. He's bemused to see remorse, of all things, in his lover's eyes. It doesn't make sense; of all the people who deserves to be inundated with guilt, it is Danny. Not Hawkes.

He strides parallel to the glass wall of the break room to its closed door. Hawkes is walking to it at the same time, eyes downcast and gazing down at the floor, a hand over his mouth. Out of the corner of his eyes, Flack sees Danny shuffling to the windows on the opposite side, fidgeting, back turned towards them, towards everything. The anger is brewing within Danny once more, and Flack knows, this time, Danny's directing it at himself.

Hawkes is wise to not wish to be present once the next outburst transpires.

"Are you _okay?_" Flack asks Hawkes the minute the CSI is out of the room.

"Yes."

Hawkes leaves his hand covering his mouth as he replies.

Immediately, Flack's gut instinct alerts him that something is wrong.

"Sheldon? Wha-"

He gapes after Hawkes who is treading down the corridor without answering or waiting for him. Then, he recalls where he is, and darts after Hawkes, keeping his questions to himself until they're in the locker room. It's where they often go whenever they require some privacy.

He doesn't look back when he hears the jarring noise of something heavy crashing to the floor.

Danny's second explosion of outrage has commenced.

Entering the locker room after Hawkes, Flack locks the door behind him. This is one of those moments where he won't even let _Mac_ in, and he has the hunch that Hawkes won't be too happy about anyone else intruding on them right now.

Hawkes still has his hand over his mouth.

"Sheldon."

Flack rubs a hand on Hawkes' forearm, sliding it up to the hand shielding that mouth from him.

"Lemme see yer lips."

Something flashes in Hawkes' brown eyes, something close to apprehension, but not quite. A moment later, Hawkes releases a resigned sigh and shuts his eyes.

The hand falls away.

It takes a minute or so for Flack to figure out why Hawkes was obscuring his lips from sight. There's a bloody cut to the right side of the man's lower lip. It's fresh enough that it couldn't have happened more than a few hours ago, at most. It's crusted over, a dark, bumpy groove that blends with Hawkes' skin, although it's conspicuous on the lighter shade of Hawkes' lips.

The wound hurls Flack's mind back into the past. It isn't Hawkes before him. It is his mother, nearly twenty years ago. His mother, with yellowish and purplish discolorations all over her once pretty face, nursing a cut on her lips that his father had placed there with a single blow.

"_It's alright, Donnie, really … it's not as bad as it looks. Mommy will be okay. Really."_

Flack remembers the tears in his mother's sad, blue eyes, and his vision is drenched blood red.

"Did he _hit _you?" he growls between gritted teeth.

Hawkes' muteness is an answer in itself.

"When did Danny hit you? _Tell me!_"

His bellow reverberates in the vast locker room. Had it been anybody else, they would have been petrified by his ferocity.

Hawkes isn't just anybody else.

"It was earlier this morning. We were collecting evidence from the Ulchester case. You know, the triple homicide in the fashion boutique in Greenwich Village?"

Flack gives him a stiff nod.

"I don't know what happened … It's like … we just couldn't stop _snapping_ at each other. It got to the point that - I don't know. I think I might have said something. About us."

Flack feels a hand cup his warm cheek.

"He didn't mean it, Don," Hawkes says in a very calm tone. "I _know_ he didn't mean it. He was angry. _Shocked_. He just lost control for a second. You know what he's like when he loses his temper."

A muscle twitches in Flack's lower jaw.

For a second time, his mother materializes in his thoughts, displaying that cheerless, mechanical smile in an attempt to console him. Instead, it hurts him as much as the injuries puffing up her face and body.

"_He didn't mean it, Donnie. Your father gets stressed from work, that's all … You know what he's like when he's under a lot of pressure."_

Flack shakes his head heatedly.

"That's no fuckin' excuse for violence. _Ever_."

Hawkes gives him a little smile, and the mercy within it makes Flack's heart ache.

"Let it be, Don. He knows about us now. Let it be."

"I can't let him off the hook for _this_," Flack begins, then considers his next words at the disappointment on Hawkes' visage. "What I'm sayin' is, I'm not gonna beat him up or anythin' like that. I'm just gonna _talk _to him and straighten things out once and for all."

"He'll accept it wi-"

"No, he _won't_. And you _know_ it."

Hawkes gazes into his eyes for a while, and then rests the palm of his hand against his neck. "Okay. _Okay_."

Flack is surprised into immobility when the other man wraps his arms around him in a hug. He's the one who should be reassuring Hawkes, not the other way around. He dragged Hawkes into this mess, and now the guy has a split lip thanks to him -

"It's okay, Don. This isn't your fault."

God, it's true. Sheldon Hawkes reads him like a freaking book.

The craziest thing is, he's absolutely fine with that.

He returns the embrace, squeezing Hawkes tight, closing his eyes and his world narrows down to an invisible box that encloses them. Everything he needs is right here in his arms.

And the revelation that follows that one is almost enough to bring him to his knees.

_So, this is what it feels like_, his heart murmurs in awe, _to be trusted_.

**( Oooo …... oooO )**

He finds Danny in the locker room a number of hours later, as the sun is setting on the angular, metropolitan skyline of his beloved city.

Danny is alone, standing before his open locker and changing shirts. Flack observes this routine act with impassive eyes but a heavy heart. Once upon a time, in another life and another love, he would have bolted the door behind him and pounced on the other detective without hesitation. Taken off Danny's shirt and skimmed his hands across that broad chest, down that flat belly. Enfolded Danny in his arms and held him against the lockers as they kissed and rubbed and caressed each other.

Listened to Danny whispering and moaning sweet nothings in his ear, and forgotten that the universe existed as they climaxed together, white semen splattering their stomachs.

Another life.

Another love that's dead.

Flack watches Danny pull a dark green shirt down his arms and torso, and thinks it's strangely appropriate for the situation that Danny would be wearing green. Green. The color of jealousy.

Danny takes his time in closing his locker. He moves like an old man, lethargic, as if the weight of the whole earth is bearing down upon his shoulders. For some reason, Flack feels the same, though the crushing burden isn't on his shoulders. It's around something in the left side of his chest.

Flack decides to go straight for the kill once the CSI has finished securing his locker with a key.

"So how was your trip to Montana?"

Danny jolts in surprise, twisting around to face him. Flack is uncertain whether Danny's blue eyes are so wide because he didn't expect Flack to be there, or because he didn't expect Flack to talk to him, period.

Flack ambles forward, his steps slow and steady. "I heard that Katums guy received a guilty verdict."

It takes Danny a little while to regain composure.

"Yeah … yeah, he did."

Danny doesn't look him in the eye as he replies.

"So … how was your trip to Montana?" Flack asks again. The seemingly apathetic repetition of the question makes Danny raise his head fast. Those heavy-lidded eyes are wide behind silver-framed spectacles once more.

This is the first time they've ever discussed Danny's trip to Montana to attend Lindsay's trial. In fact, they haven't talked much at all after Danny had returned to the city together with her. Yes, they had to talk to each other whenever they had to work together on a case, but that's different. There were other people around, jobs to do, things to distract them from talking about what truly needed to be brought into the light.

Things like why Danny thought it was a terrific idea to have an affair behind his back and reduce his heart to a pulverized pulp while the guy was at it.

"What? Nothin' to say? Wheatfield Land was _that_ boring, huh?"

Danny simply stands in front of him in uneasy silence, staring at him with those puppy eyes.

Once upon a time, they brought a smile to his face. Now, they just make him angry.

He's been angry for a long time.

And he's tired of holding back the tide, of being the punching bag. Tired of it all.

"Well, gee, I guess ya couldn't possibly have been _that _bored if ya spent almost a _week_ there, huh, Danny?"

He sees Danny swallow visibly, and it's indescribable, the resentment he feels upon seeing that, upon knowing that Danny did that because the man's nervous and _guilty_.

"What, aren't ya gonna _share? _Don'tcha wanna tell me how _fun_ ya had _with_ Montana? _Huh?_"

There's only inches between them now, and he gets right into Danny's face, seeing only those big, blue eyes that are glistening beneath the ceiling light.

_It's a pretense, it's a lie, don't believe it -_

"Okay, if _you_ don't wanna share, _please_, allow _me_ to tell you how things were goin' here while you were gone," Flack charges on in a low, gruff voice. "I had a _great _time. No, really, I did and ya wanna know why? 'Cause I found somebody who treats me with _respect_ and actually gives a _shit_ 'bout me and doesn't _lie_ to me or think I'm just some fuckin' _trophy_ he can _chuck aside any time he likes_ -"

"_No_, that's _not _true -"

_Damn him, he's lying to me, even now -_

"Not true? _Not true?!_"

Flack frightens even himself with the violent punch he lobs into the nearest locker. He hears a crackling sound, and his brain informs him that he's just done a very bad thing to his hand. He's so pissed off that he isn't feeling the pain yet. He's panting as he lets his arm drop to his side.

"Oh yeah, Danny. People who love each other go fuckin' other people behind their backs. Yeah, I musta _missed_ the memo for _that_."

He's so pissed off, his sight's gone all blurry. He can't see Danny clearly any longer.

However, he can still tell the other man is shaking his head fervidly from side to side in protest, and that causes his vexation to surpass his grief again.

"I don't _care_ anymore. I don't care why you did it, why you did this to me, after everythin' we've been through … _I don't care anymore_."

He swallows in the hopes of removing whatever's suddenly clogging up his throat. It's making his voice sound really hoarse.

"You made your choice, I get that. Now _you're_ gonna get somethin' too … if you _ever_ hurt Hawkes again, I'll give it back to you in _spades_, ya _hear_ me? And _yeah_, if ya haven't _figured_ it out yet, _he's_ the one. "

He pauses for an instant, then chokes out the most excruciating words he'll ever say, "You made your choice, and so have I, Danny. Whatever the hell there was between us … _it's over_."

Danny's gasp is like a knife that stabs him mortally in the heart.

"_We're over_."

Flack doesn't stick around to hear what Danny has for an answer. He storms a path out of the locker room, slamming the door open so hard against the wall that it scares a lab technician who happened to be sauntering by.

He doesn't look back, and tries his damnest to convince himself that the sobs he hears from behind him are simply a figment of his imagination.

**ii. "Don't you know, the hardest part is over ..."**

Danny listens to his shower running.

He sits with his elbows on knees on the side of his bed, naked apart from some rumpled bedsheets covering his groin and thighs. He always liked the spectacular view of the city he loves through his bedroom windows. An elongated, panoramic vista of magnificent skyscrapers, countless window squares of illumination and streaking neon lights as fellow inhabitants dash here and there in their vehicles. Always hurrying, always active, never sleeping.

He always liked the view, but tonight, it no longer invigorates him or lift his spirits like it used to.

Tonight is the last night he'll live in the city that has been his home since the moment he was born.

He listens to his shower running, and he thinks about a particularly rainy day that took place a few weeks ago. He was in Mac's office at the labs, and Mac was none too pleased with him. The older CSI's brows were lowered in his typical frown and his lips were in a thin line of annoyance. The dangerous gleam in those hazel eyes reminded Danny of yet another day when he'd been in Mac's office, a day where he had disappointed his boss so badly he was kicked off the promotion grid.

"Did you pick a _fight_ with Hawkes?"

Mac's the kind of guy who goes straight to the point.

Danny doesn't remember what he said to Mac, or what Mac said after his reply. All he recollects are Mac's parting words as he shambled to the door.

"_Sort_ things out, or _get out_."

Mac had apologized later to Danny for his harshness, then received one hell of a shocker when Danny tendered his resignation letter, along with Lindsay's. He doesn't blame Mac for his flabbergasted reaction. He'd been equally shocked after Lindsay had proposed the idea to him and persuaded him into carrying it out.

He stares out his bedroom windows at the splendor of New York city. Does his best to replace it with endless, golden wheatfields and thin, fragile stalks that sway with the wind.

And all he sees is a barren, lifeless desert, stretching into the horizon with no end in sight.

He shuts his eyes and bows his head, cupping the sides of his head with his hands.

_This is what I want_, he reiterates to himself. _This is what I want, this is the right thing. Settle down with a woman, have 2.4 kids, live in a suburban home, work a nine to five job. Live a normal life. This is what's best for me. _

_This is what's best for Don._

The mere thought of the homicide detective sends a sharp pain winding through his chest. His nights have been swamped with dreams of Flack since that horrible evening in the locker room at the laboratories. They're sad dreams, evocative dreams, a mixture of all the good and bad days and nights they experienced together. Sometimes, Flack is smiling and laughing, his handsome face crinkled with joy. Sometimes, Flack is sitting at a distance from him, looking at something beyond his head, looking through him like he isn't there.

But most times, Flack is glaring at him with cold, glossy eyes. Piercing eyes that accuse him of what he's blameworthy for through and through.

It doesn't help that Lindsay is constantly asking him what's wrong, every time he awakens in the middle of the night and he doesn't want to tell her anything and he feels like running away as far as he can. Running away to an apartment in lower Manhattan that used to be his second home.

His only home; a tall, blue-eyed homicide detective who now hates his guts more than anything else.

And it's his fault. There's no escape for him from that, no matter how far he runs. It's his fault Flack loathes him now.

The shower has stopped.

He has to make a determined effort to sit up, propping himself with his hands on his knees. He begins the litany in his head, the same one he knows by heart forwards and backwards by now.

_This is what I want, this is the right thing. This is what's best for me. _

_This is what's best for Don._

_He'll settle down with a woman, have 2.4 kids, live in a suburban home, work a nine to five job. Live a normal life. Without me._

_This is what's best for him._

It's become second nature to restate those words over and over. He continues to do it, even though he knows he's in denial of reality.

The only time when one has to tell themselves something over and over to believe it … is when it's a lie.

"Hey, you."

The bed sinks a little as Lindsay crawls onto it. Her washed and wavy hair brushes his upper back and shoulders, and her warmth presses along his back. He feels her rest her chin on his shoulder.

"I know it's a big move and you're feeling doubtful about things, but you'll _love _Montana, trust me," she says in a jovial tone. "You'll love the wheatfields more than the New York skyline, you'll see."

His lips curl up, and it's adequate a smile to assuage her and halt more attempts at cheering him up. It's a smile that doesn't reach his eyes. Neither does he feel it in his soul.

Later, Lindsay is asleep in the bed beside him. She lies on her side, facing away from the windows, the blanket up to her shoulders. He's on his back, and regardless of how much he tries to sleep, he can't. The knowledge that he's leaving - _today_ - is driving his mind into going around and around in circles. Driving him crazy.

He rolls over, towards his bedroom windows and stares out at the city once more, at the lights, at the _life_, the life he's going to leave behind.

_God_, he's going to miss New York. He's going to miss his family. He's going to miss working at the labs with Mac and Stella and Adam and even Hammerback and -

He winds up in a fetal position at the thought, the _fact_, that Hawkes is most likely in bed with Flack at either of their apartments. The worst part is, Hawkes is a good man, the genuine thing. The guy didn't deserve getting a punch to his face at all, or that stupid brawl-to-be in the break room. And Hawkes was right. He was the one who left Flack to begin with. Who is he to deny Hawkes the homicide detective's heart, when it didn't belong to him anymore?

Danny eventually topples into a fitful slumber, a slumber that is occupied with his much-loved city. This time, New York doesn't come to him as a bustling metropolis, but a familiar, handsome face full of hurt and disillusionment.

And when he awakens in the morning, his eyes red and sore, he allays Lindsay's queries with the usual rehearsed persuasions and prays that, one day … he'll believe them too.

**( Oooo …... oooO )**

On the flight to the Gallatin Field airport in Bozeman, Montana, Danny gazes out the small window at the bulbous clouds littering the bright blue sky. Lindsay is napping next to him, her seat slightly slanted back.

The overall silence in the cabin permits Danny to become lost in his cogitations. His mind drifts to the afternoon on the day before their departure, his final day at the labs that made up so much of his life for the last six years or so.

He's packing the remainder of his belongings from his locker, putting the items into his backpack. Mac and Stella have already said their farewells and given him goodbye hugs and he's yearning to get the hell out of there before he breaks down and changes his mind about everything and fucks it all up again.

The one person whom he _doesn't_ anticipate to even meet him shows up at the entrance of the locker room, just as he's about to leave.

"Good luck, Danny, in whatever you choose to do and wherever you go."

Hawkes is offering a hand for a handshake.

Danny stares at Hawkes' mien, searching for hints of mockery or bitterness in the other CSI's expression.

There is none. The absence of any aversion towards him, specially after what he did to the man, stuns him.

He extends his own hand and grasps Hawkes' with it.

"Thanks, Hawkes," he mumbles in a subdued voice.

He's feeling rather embarrassed, unable to look Hawkes in the eye. Mac had intentionally allocated them to different cases since their argument in the break room months ago became widespread knowledge, so they hardly interacted with each other unless it was very necessary. He hadn't told anyone except Mac about resigning. Mac must have told Stella at some point after that, which meant Hawkes must have heard it from either Stella or their boss.

_Former boss_, his mind corrects him.

Hawkes takes him aback again with, "I'm sorry to see you go. It was good working with you. The lab is losing a great CSI."

Danny feels worse and worse by the second. Hawkes wasn't being cynical. The guy really meant what he said.

And he would be an asshole for not saying what he should have said much, much earlier.

"Hawkes, I … I'm _sorry_. 'Bout punchin' ya, and pickin' a fight with ya in the break room. You didn't deserve any of that," Danny utters with all sincerity. "And you were right."

There is no need to stipulate what it was Hawkes had been right about. They both know it. It hangs over them like a shadowy fog.

"It's okay, Danny. Really."

Danny looks at Hawkes' visage, at the other man's lips. Indeed, the once grazed lower lip has healed completely. There isn't a single mark there.

An awkward hush befalls them for a minute. Danny wants to say goodbye, except he's at a loss for words and his intuition tells him he has to conclude this conversation with a kind word about Hawkes and Flack, in spite of how difficult it is.

What does he say to the man who has become the new love of the person who still possesses his heart?

"Take care of him, will ya?"

Hawkes doesn't falter at all in his reply.

"Absolutely."

"Hawkes, could you … could you let him _know?_"

Hawkes' brown eyes suddenly appear poignant and sympathetic.

Out of the blue, a memory soars to the forefront of Danny's brain.

He's holding a card in his hands, a card that Lindsay had left on a table for him before she left for her trial, and thinking to himself, "A _card? _Why didn't she just _look_ for me or _call_ me? I was always here."

Right away, he regrets ever asking Hawkes that question.

"Danny. He's only a phone call away."

The words hurt a great deal despite the fact that he was already predicting them.

He's gripping his mobile phone in his hand while he watches Hawkes walk away. He's gripping it in the train as he travels back to his apartment to pack the last few essential items for the trip. He's gripping it in his jacket pocket as he and Lindsay are boarding the plane.

And he's still gripping it, right now, in his left hand, rolling it around and around, powerless to let it go.

"You really can't part with that thing, can you?"

Lindsay's amused inquiry drags him out of his reverie. He turns his head to look at her, and sends her a smirk and a shrug. She chuckles to herself. After a couple of minutes, she's returned to her nap, arms folded on her abdomen, her head leaning on his shoulder.

Danny glances down at his black, sleek phone, hypnotized by the way the sunlight glints off the metallic edges and makes it sparkle like a diamond. It's turned off anyhow. Even if somebody called him, it'll be directed straight to his voice mail.

He begins flipping it open and shut, and wonders what Lindsay would say if she knew the reason he can't let it go is that he's being eaten alive by shame for not calling Flack to say goodbye.

**iii. "Let it in, let your clarity define you ..."**

It's a sunny, cloudless day when Flack goes to visit Mac at his office at the laboratories. It has been a while since he's met with the older detective or any of the other CSIs. Apart from Hawkes, of course. He sees Hawkes almost every night.

It's been rather peculiar to work with other CSIs in the city instead of Mac and his team for the last few months. Then again, he was the one who'd requested to be delegated to cases that didn't involve Mac or his subordinates.

Or more specifically, a certain blue-eyed detective and another from Montana.

The disconsolate dreams that preoccupy him in the night are already driving him up the wall. He doesn't need the additional torture of having to work with either CSI and have his loss thrown into his face again and again, _thank you very much_.

Thus, it's also rather peculiar that he doesn't feel ill at ease at all upon stepping into the labs and then Mac's office. Maybe the pain has finally faded away in its entirety. Maybe he's finally moving on.

Maybe.

_Today is a good day_, Flack thinks to himself as Mac, standing behind his desk, begins his elucidation of the case they'll be working on.

" … I'll be heading down to the Millennium Skate Park with Stella. McMillan and Wright will be handling the secondary crime scene."

Flack blinks.

"Who?"

Mac glances up from the light brown case folders on his desk at him. "McMillan and Wright? They're new to the labs. I recently hired them to replace Danny and Lindsay."

Flack's entire world skids to an abrupt halt.

"_Replace _them?"

"Yes. They sent in their resignation letters some time ago," Mac replies, straightening up, his fingertips brushing the table surface. "They left for Montana the day before."

Suddenly, the sunlight cascading in through the windows behind Mac becomes too vivid. It burns Flack's eyes, causing them to water.

"He's gone?" he whispers.

At least, he _thinks_ he whispered it.

Mac angles his head to one side, casting an unreadable albeit astute gaze on him. "He didn't _tell_ you?"

Flack blinks numerous times more, clearing his sight, blanking out his expression. There is no way in hell he's going to lose it in front of Mac.

"I - I musta forgotten 'bout it," he swiftly justifies. "_Yeah_, he told me. It's been real busy for me, that's all. Just forgot 'bout it."

He shrugs a shoulder.

Yeah, that's it. Keep it cool. Crack later, when nobody's there to see.

Mac is gazing quietly at him. There's something in the older man's eyes that's saying a thousand words, and Flack blocks every single one out. Provided that he doesn't acknowledge the comprehension in Mac's eyes, he can pretend Mac doesn't know how much it's killing him that Danny just upped and left. Just like that.

His brain's a funny thing. He's standing right here in Mac's office, feeling like an utter fool, and the first thing that leaps into that wrinkly organ in his skull is the imagery of a dead body lying on an autopsy table. This one has his face. Spanning the length of the torso is a large Y-incision that's been stitched up by adroit hands.

Now he knows what it feels like to be cleaved open from sternum to groin.

And it hurts, so much more than his almost-healed right hand that had battered itself into that locker during his last fight with Danny. It hurts, even more than having his belly blown apart by a bomb. He hadn't been awake when that happened. A kindness denied him this time.

Mac's looking down at the folders on his desk, and Flack is grateful to be free of that perceptive stare. Mac doesn't mention anything more about Danny and Lindsay having left, something he is grateful for as well.

If there is anyone who understands what loss means, it is this ex-Marine turned first grade CSI detective who stands before him.

The rest of the day elapses in a numb haze. Flack goes through the motions of interviews and paperwork and updating Mac by phone from his desk at the precinct. There's so much freaking paperwork today that it's unbelievable. Well, since he's here at his desk and he has tons of red tape to handle, he ought to just get it over and done with. Mac and Hawkes are just fine on their own.

He's just fine on his own.

_Today is not a good day_, he thinks later, as he drives along his habitual route back to his apartment. He only succeeded in completing a _bit _of the paperwork, and there's a possibility he's coming down with a flu or something because he feels like shit and his throat's all raw and his eyes are stinging. To top off his good day turned not good, he's stuck in the inevitable traffic jam that arises every day when office hours are over.

There are two missed calls on his mobile phone. Both are from Hawkes.

He mulls over calling his lover, but something stops him from doing so. Somehow, it doesn't feel right to encumber Hawkes with the whole Danny-left-without-even-saying-goodbye issue. This is something he has to deal with on his own, for as long as he can.

When the time comes, Hawkes will be there for him. He knows it.

His hands shift the steering wheel on their accord, so accustomed are they to the course leading to home.

And as he sits in the driver's seat in his car, over an hour afterward, he's torn between wanting to laugh his head off till he cried and smashing his windshield with his fists.

His heart was set on home, and he's here, in front of what was once Danny's apartment building.

One voice in his head is berating him and calling him a fucking idiot for pining after a lying bastard who never cared about him. Another is blathering on and on about his homicide cases, spewing out random details. And another, the tiniest and most meek one, merely whispers two words over and over in a broken manner.

_He'sgonehe'sgonehe's gonehe'sgone -_

_He's gone._

It is a very, very long time before he turns the key in the ignition and drives away into the darkness.

**( Oooo …... oooO )**

Silence reigns in the spaciousness of Hawkes' apartment.

Flack is leaning against one of the windows in the living area, one that overlooks the city and all its glittering grandeur; an earthly reflection of the star-studded heavens above. He's been standing there for over an hour, arms crossed on top of his chest, shoulders hunched. Tie loosened and dress shirt with two buttons unfastened under the collar. Blue eyes glassy with reminiscence.

He senses Hawkes' concerned gaze flitting his way again from where the man is sitting in his study room nearby. Hawkes had left the door partially open, and while this means Hawkes is able to observe him at all times, he doesn't feel as if his privacy is invaded. In fact, it pleases him that Hawkes is always there. Not too close, giving him the space he requires, but not too far away either. Just enough that he can feel Hawkes' presence there with him.

After driving round and round the city throughout the night, he'd found himself at Hawkes' door, shivering from a chill that was within as much as it was on the outside. It was really late and he knows Hawkes isn't very fond of being disturbed at such a late hour.

He'd been prepared for an irritated Hawkes to tell him off for his insensitivity. The minute Hawkes opened his front door though, the man had taken one look at his face and guided him into the apartment without any complaint.

There were no questions raised, except one.

"How did you find out?"

Flack was too exhausted to bother fathoming how long Hawkes had known about Danny's surreptitious departure, or how the guy figured out _he_ knew it now.

"Mac told me," he mumbled.

The dismay in Hawkes' eyes mystified him. Was it directed at him, or someone else?

Hawkes didn't explain. Nevertheless, his lover's subsequent actions gradually eased his apprehensions. Hawkes made him sit on the couch in the living room and then went into the kitchen to brew some coffee. Once Hawkes passed him his mug of the hot beverage, Hawkes asked, "Would you like some company?"

He'd shaken his head, he remembers that. And he remembers that Hawkes respected his wish with no grievances, leaving him on his own in the living area and retreating to the study room.

Two days in the future, he'll be thanking Hawkes for his selflessness with a marvelous dinner and hours of lovemaking and affirmations of love. But tonight, tonight is a time for recollection of another friendship that blossomed into something more … and then withered away without reason.

_There has to be a reason_, Flack's mind contemplates in the stillness. _There's a reason for everything._

He swallows visibly when it dawns on him that those words have become forged in his memory due to them being Danny's favorite contention in their bygone conversations. Danny is thousands of miles away from him, and yet, the man is still here in his head, imprisoning him in emotions that should have petered out long ago.

Is it really Danny who won't let go?

Or is it _he_ who _can't_ let go?

Flack shifts the focus of his gaze to his own reflection in the transparent glass of the window. He sees the countenance of a very weary man, lines around his eyes and mouth where he'd never noticed any, dark half-circles underneath his bloodshot eyes. He'll be thirty years old in a couple of months' time, and he appears as if he's already twice that.

Damn, he's a mess. No wonder Hawkes is giving him such a wide berth.

The mesmerizing lights of the metropolis entice him to stare out the windows again.

Danny always did like the view of New York city from his bedroom. He can't forget that, not after Danny had told him that during one of the best nights of his life, almost two years ago. They were curled up naked on their sides, him spooning Danny from behind on the bed and disheveled sheets as they gazed out the windows.

"Look at that," Danny had murmured in a voice full of wonder. "Isn't that the most amazin' sight in the world?"

"Uh hmm," he breathed in reply, nuzzling the crook between Danny's neck and shoulder.

"I'll be _dead_ before I ever leave this place."

"Ya know, some people think this place is _hell_."

There was some silence, then Danny said, "Everybody has their own heaven and hell."

He chuckled in amusement. "Ya goin' all philosophical on me, Danno?"

"Hey." Danny turned his head and gave him a mock glower. "I'm not just a _science geek_, ya know. I know _other_ stuff too."

He grinned. "Yeah? Like what?"

Danny rolled onto his back, and declared, "You _are_ New York city."

"Wha, so you're sayin' I'm full a' _smog_ and _noise_ and _overpriced__rent?_" he responded with a phony offended expression.

Danny was all quiet once more, and there was a strange gleam in those magnetic blue eyes.

"No."

Flack felt fingers sweep down the side of his face in a loving stroke.

"I'm sayin' that you're beautiful."

Flack isn't ready for the sorrow that follows that memory, those words that had sounded so heartfelt and true. He'd been so confident after that night, so assured that things were only going to get better for him and Danny from then onwards.

He was so wrong.

Things had taken such a devastating downturn barely months after that. In hindsight, he should have detected the signs; Danny taking longer shifts, lessening their nights out, decreasing contact and communication. Flinching from the slightest touches in public. Avoiding him. Cutting him away, little by little, until there's nothing left. He should have seen it coming, but he didn't. He couldn't bear to.

Danny was his New York, and he believed he'd die too, if he ever left his city.

It never occurred to him that Danny, his city, his _home_, would someday leave _him_.

_He's gone._

All at once, he feels sick to the stomach. It's akin to nausea, only it's worse in the sense that no amount of retching will purge his body of the queasiness.

There is no physical balm for the suffering of the heart.

He pushes himself away from the window and stumbles to the bathroom on wobbly legs. Hawkes' eyes are on him as he staggers past the half-open door of the study room. Right now, he doesn't care whether Hawkes comes after him or not. He's already having enough of a dilemma attempting to stop himself from tearing apart as it is.

He closes the door, then collapses onto the closed lid of the toilet. His hands are so cold. They're trembling on his thighs, and he has no understanding why that is. His face, in contrast, feels so damn hot. And _wet_. Where's the water coming from?

Flack wipes his face with the back of his hand.

The last time he had felt this awful was fifteen years ago. It's nearly humorous what a coincidence it is that, at that point in time, the setting had been the bathroom too. The difference is, his fifteen-year-old self is standing outside it, peering inside through a gap in the door.

His mother is sitting on the shut lid of the toilet, just like he is in the present time. There's one huge bruise on her left cheek. More often than not, there'd be more, all over her face or her forearms. His dad's been more _kind_ lately.

There's only one bruise on her face, but she's crying hard, like she does after a really bad beating. She's slumped forward, her head low in intense dejection, her arms wrapped around her delicate body in an effort to comfort herself. Big tears stream in rivulets down her pale face. He can't see her blue eyes, for they're scrunched up so severely in her despair.

He cries very much like his mom does. Many tears and soundless sobs. For his mother, crying aloud is sometimes sufficient an excuse for his dad to strike her again. She's learnt to keep her anguish to herself. For him, crying in silence means that no one will ever hear his weakness. Hear how helpless he feels in the face of the evil subjugating those he loves, subjugating _him_.

"Why? … _Why?_"

Flack never understood why his mother was asking that as she wept by herself in the bathroom so many years ago.

He never did, until tonight.

_How similar we are in the end, you and I_, a tiny voice within Flack murmurs, _weeping alone in silence for a love lost_.

There is the click of the bathroom doorknob being turned. After some time, he lifts his head to see, through tear-filled eyes, Hawkes tentatively coming in. Hawkes seems ambivalent about whether to go up to him or give him solitude, and he helps the other man come to a decision by stretching his arm out in noiseless entreaty.

Hawkes is straight away at his side, enveloping him with strong, steadfast arms, drawing his heavy head against a warm, solid chest covered with thick cotton. Hawkes remains quiet. The man is being there for him, even as he is giving him room to release the ache inside him.

He sucks in a rough breath, letting his heart mourn in abundance.

Letting go of the pain.

Letting go of Danny, at last.

**iv. "In the end, we will only just remember how it feels ..."**

The word going around the NYPD is that he's one mysterious guy. Nobody really knows anything much about him, apart from him being the sole child and son of legendary Don Flack, Sr., and one of the youngest homicide detectives ever to attain first grade status at the age of thirty-five. That he's _damn_ good at his job and gives his best every time. Oh, and that he likes vendor hot dogs a lot.

And that's the way Flack likes it.

His life is nobody's business except his.

Today, however, is a day when someone very cherished to him will be told everything that he shelters deep within himself throughout the year. Things that no other soul will ever hear.

His blue eyes gaze downwards at the mowed, green grass beneath and around his shoes. They're sprinkled with luminous dewdrops, and Flack ponders on the irony of the grass being so verdant and thriving in a cemetery.

A memorial park to the dead.

"It's weird, ya know," he says in a quiet voice, observing the dance of early morning sunshine on the lush blades covering the soil. "Every year I come here … I never know how to start the conversation. Sure, I know, I'm the one who's gonna do all the talkin' so obviously I'm the one who's gotta start it off, right?"

He chuckles softly to himself and leans his elbows on his knees, entwining his fingers. He shifts into a more comfortable sitting position on the bench.

"Well … I'm a first grade detective now. I don't feel any different. I dunno if I should be happy or proud or _what_. Feels the same like when I was a second grade detective or even before that. I gotta admit, I like havin' my own office now. Never knew how nice it is to have privacy at work till now."

Flack shrugs his shoulders.

"Okay, I admit it too, the guys at the precinct are treatin' me a little different these days. Not in the bad way, but … ya know, things change when a guy gets promoted. Maybe that's why I don't wanna feel anythin' 'bout it. Never did the job for glory, ya know that. S'nice to get some recognition though. Least I know I'm goin' in the right direction."

He sighs, and raises his head, staring into the distance.

"Six years ... Has it really been that long? Seems like yesterday we were standin' outside that abandoned building with Stella, and you guys were teasin' me 'bout bein' afraid of ghosts. Ya remember that? Yeah, how funny is it that one a' my favorite places to be is right here in a _cemetery_, huh? Ghosties and all that."

If he listens hard enough, he can hear that familiar, sarcastic laugh floating to his ears.

The truth is, he's not scared of ghosts at all. He doesn't even believe in their existence. Only dumb people would wish to stick around in this hellhole of a world once they're already dead. There _has_ to be better things to do and better places to go after death.

"I know I haven't told ya much 'bout the others. I dunno how ya ended things with Mac, we never got to talk 'bout that before … ya know. He's had some good times and some bad times since ya left the labs, but he's still goin' strong. He's a tough bastard, that guy. He's not a CSI anymore, just a forensic consultant now. Yeah, _shockin'_, huh? He had to retire from active duty after he got shot in the lung, by a friggin' _street punk_, of all people. I mean, he's faced all kinds a' perps, from serial killers to psychos to yer typical greedy little shit who kills for money … and he gets shot by a punk who didn't even _know_ how to use a gun? Geez, that's life for ya."

Flack pauses for a few minutes. There is a cool draft blowing, ruffling his shorn hair and tickling his cheeks and forehead.

"And guess what? Mac and Stella are _married_." He waves a finger in the air. "Heh, you were _right_ 'bout them. And before ya start complainin', I gave your share of the money to that pet store in Brooklyn ya always liked visitin'. Ya know, the one with all those _armadillos_. I figured you'd be happy yer money's keepin' them all nice and comfy till they find an owner or somethin'. Dunno what the heck ya saw in those weird-lookin' animals … they're kinda creepy, if ya ask me."

He scratches at the side of his neck above the collar of his long coat.

"So anyways, Mac and Stella have a son, Alexander. He's gonna be two years old soon. Stella got the choice of name, so no surprise she went for a _Greek_ name, huh? He's a cute, little tyke. Has Mac's eyes and Stella's smile."

Talking about Mac and Stella brings him back to their wedding that took place before Alexander was born. It was a small, close-knit and modest ceremony. Every guest had some personal bond to Mac or Stella one way or another, so there were no strangers, not for long anyhow. The wedding had been one of the happiest and most memorable events in his life, which is bizarre since it wasn't him who was getting married that day. Perhaps it's true, what people say about joy being doubled when it's shared. It's a gift that keeps on giving. Perhaps Hawkes, his significant other, who'd been there with him was what made it extraordinary.

There'd been something extremely moving about witnessing a marriage between two close friends, particularly two people like Mac and Stella, whom he'd known for so long. There was much gossip the two would end up together sooner or later, and who can blame such rumors for existing?

Stella had stayed with Mac every day and night after he was shot. She stayed with him even as he lashed out at her time and again in his time of vulnerability and ruined ambitions, often with violent behavior and scathing, hurtful words.

She stayed, and that took a lot of love. _Immense_ love.

And thankfully for Mac, she stayed long enough for him to finally come to his senses and ask her to be his wife. For better for worse, for richer for poorer, in sickness and in health, till death do they part. Mac was very thankful, too, that she answered yes.

One day, Flack will tell them what an inspiration they are to him. What a testimony they are, that love can still survive in this cold, disillusioned world of lies, greed and betrayal.

"Speakin' of children, Mac has a _step-son _too, a young man called Reed. He's a good kid. He looks like his mom, but he's got Mac's heart. Amazin', the things ya learn 'bout people 'round you when ya least expect it."

He had met Reed at the wedding. As a matter of fact, he probably met _everyone_ whom Mac considers family there, including one colossal giant of a guy who used to be in the Marines with Mac during the eighties and now works for the FBI. It isn't everyday that Flack has to tip his head back to talk to somebody, and he's glad that Jon Turgis, the one man he's met so far who makes him do that, happens to be a friend of Mac's.

Heh, Hawkes had a field day discussing medical stuff with Peyton Driscoll during the dinner. Peyton, the same woman who was once Mac's girlfriend when Mac was still a CSI and she was still an ME for the lab. Flack had been astonished to see her at the ceremony. He'd heard that things had gone bad between her and Mac after a couple of years, and she'd transferred to another laboratory in the city. Guess they patched up.

Seeing her there, going up to Mac and Stella and watching them embrace one another with no enmity whatsoever, had impelled him into thinking about Danny.

Invitations had been sent to Danny and Lindsay as soon as Stella did some inquiring here and there and ascertained the name and address of the laboratory they were working in at the time. Neither attended the wedding. Stella didn't even receive a RSVP in return. Or a phone call.

It's like they'd disappeared into thin air.

Or they wanted ties with everybody here in New York to be permanently cut.

"I don't really know what to say 'bout Danny," Flack continues. "He left the city five years ago. For Montana. Yeah, _Montana_, I know. Of _all _places. Things were … it was just really complicated."

He exhales loudly.

"You were smarter than anybody could give ya credit for, ya know that? Ya knew 'bout Mac and Stella … and ya knew 'bout me and Danny, even before _we_ knew. I know, I kept it from ya for months after the relationship started, but I _had_ to. Danny freaked out on me every time I thought 'bout tellin' ya. If only he knew _you_ knew it already."

He swears that he hears her lively snickering once more. The back of the bench is hard and curved in the perfect shape to support his back, and he leans backwards, tilting his head.

"I dunno what went wrong. I wish I could tell ya what went wrong, 'cept I don't have a freakin' clue myself. It was good, _really_ good … everythin' was flowin' like - like a smooth river. S'was like … we were just _right_."

He huffs out a mirthless laugh.

"It was still good, ya know? Even after _she_ showed up. I dunno if ya ever met her, or if Danny ever talked 'bout her to you. I know he never said anythin' to me … but yeah, why _would_ he, right? S'not like he was stupid 'nough to tell me he was gonna fuck around with her behind my back."

Brooding about Danny's unfaithfulness used to propel him into a vortex of depression that would last for days every time it struck. It was exceptionally dreadful in the first few months after Danny departed. Everywhere he went, he would see something or somebody that would remind him of what he'd lost.

Danny had been right. Everyone has their own heaven and hell.

It was just a nasty coincidence that his heaven was also his hell.

And if it hadn't been for Hawkes, the man who taught him to love again, he would have gone insane years ago.

"When he just upped and left, it hurt me like crazy. I couldn't believe it, ya know? He told me he'd rather _die_ than leave the city, and … he left. What does that mean? Does that mean he was lyin' to me all along? Does it mean he … he became so _disgusted_ with me that he couldn't even _stay _here anymore? It just _doesn't make sense_. No matter how I try to figure it out, try to think of what I mighta done wrong … I can't think a' anythin'."

He falls silent for many minutes. Maybe he really is beginning to go nuts in his age or something, because he's almost certain he can feel an invisible, soft hand patting his cheek in consolation.

"Hey, ya wanna hear somethin' hilarious? What Danny did to me turned out to be one of the _best _things that ever happened to me. Isn't that funny? I bet ya think so, you with yer dark sense a' humor."

Flack abruptly sits upright, waving his hands in front of him as he explains himself.

"See, if Danny hadn't upped and left, I wouldn't never have ended up with _Hawkes_. Yeah, Hawkes. _Doctor Death!_"

He cackles, and it's a rich sound that dispels the melancholy from the air.

"Remember when we used to go down to the morgue in the former CSI building and call him that? He'd get so hyped up 'bout it, like it was some superhero nickname or somethin'. _Doctor Death_, heh."

His expression softens into one of intense affection.

"The irony is, he's more _alive_ than most people I know. Sure, before I got to know him, I thought he was a little unusual and too smart for his own good. And then … I _did _get to know him, and that changed _everythin'_."

"I love him. I _mean_ it. I don't know what I woulda done without him. I thought what I had with Danny was the _real_ thing. It sure _felt_ like it at first. Ya know, all that _pinin'_ and _starin'_ at each other and wantin' to be with each other every second of the day kinda thing. The dumb stuff like in yer _romance novels_, you know what I'm talkin' 'bout."

"Turns out, it _wasn't_ the real thing. Not really. I kinda remember somebody tellin' me this; true love drives out all fear. And that was the _problem_, see? Danny and I, we had all the right stuff but there was this _fear_ there. This fear inside Danny. Fear that we'd be _caught_. Fear that people would _hate _us. Fear that we wouldn't be accepted by friends and family anymore. Fear of everythin' that would destroy us."

His next laugh is another joyless one.

"The tragedy of the story? I think that fear destroyed us faster than anythin' else could. I dunno if the fear alone was enough to do it. I think it was a lot more than that … reasons I still can work out. I'll probably never know."

"I do wonder, whether things would have been different for me and Danny if the world was a different place. A world without prejudice. With no _hatred_ or _fear_. A world where people didn't give a damn 'bout gender and valued what's _within_ us, not what we got on the outside. Maybe, _maybe_ … things would have been different then."

There is a stronger breeze blowing now, rustling the dense leaves of the trees behind the bench he sits on. The noise is interspersed with the far-off sounds of the city beyond the boundary walls of the cemetery.

Once more, he hears that mellifluous, lovely snicker that always heartened him in earlier times.

"Yeah, thirty-five years old … and still a dreamer," he murmurs in a sardonic tone to himself.

Still a dreamer, and truth be told, he won't change that for anything.

He knows it's time to go when the noises of the city begin to overcome the subtle sounds of the leaves crackling above him and the grass crunching under his shoes. He gets to his feet with much reluctance, and saunters towards an austere, rectangular block of granite that stands over a dozen feet away.

This is one of the moments he finds insufferable.

One of those moments, where he has to say farewell to Aiden all over again.

Her gravestone has a light grey color, speckled with innumerable dots of black and darker greys that give its surface an aesthetic charm. Nothing else adorns it, apart from a portrait photograph of her in an oval-shaped, gold frame and golden words engraved below it.

**AIDEN BURN**

**18****th**** December 1980 - May 10****th**** 2006**

**Lost for now but loved forever**

Flack traces her photograph with his fingertips, feeling not chilly enamel but the smooth, warm skin of her cheek and the radiance of her smile.

"The world may have forgotten you …" He closes his eyes, simply for a moment. "I haven't."

An eon later, he has to force himself to walk away from her grave.

It doesn't get easier with each time. Some things will always remain broken, some doors will always remain shut and some wounds will always remain unhealed.

But not for eternity.

He knows that wherever he goes and whatever he does, she will be waiting for him when he comes to visit her on every anniversary of her death. One day, they will see each other again.

Aiden will always be there, when no one else will.


	2. Part 2

**Roses and Thorns**

Fandom: CSI:NY

Author: Kimmychu

Rating: FRT

Pairings: Flack/ Hawkes, Danny/Flack, Danny/Lindsay, Mac/Stella

Content Warning: Goes AU after episode 3x19. Oh, and the story has this thingy called angst.

Spoilers: Pretty much every major episode in the show, and since this is a sequel to my story, **RNA and DNA**, spoilers for that too.

Summary: He pauses for an instant, then chokes out the most excruciating words he'll ever say, "You made your choice, and so have I, Danny. Whatever the hell there was between us … _it's over_." A multiple-ship story including Flack/Hawkes, Danny/Flack, Danny/Lindsay and Mac/Stella.

Disclaimer: You see, the cast on the show are actually clones. The real people are right here in my closet! Why yes, my closet _is_ humongous!

**( Oooo …... oooO )**

Author's Notes: Here we go, the second installment of the story! The next one is the last one. All I have to say at this point is, a certain section of this story was truly one of the hardest things I ever had to write yet. I'll let you guess which part that is. I'll be writing a lot more author's notes in the last installment to explain some of the stuff that goes on in this one. Thanks for reading, and thank you for your reviews! I appreciate them.

**( Oooo …... oooO )**

**v. "Our lives are made in these small hours ..."**

Within a matter of months, it is autumn. The hot, sweltering days of summer have receded, giving way to more breezy, frosty ones. The days are shorter and the nights get longer. It is the time of year when the trees shed their leaves, brownish-yellow and red leaves that scatter across the grassy parks and paved streets of New York city. They float through the air, and some land on the ground to be trodden underfoot while some glide above millions of people of all races, ages, and genders and over hundreds of skyscrapers, then ascend into the skies and beyond to places only the wind knows.

Autumn is a time of harvest, a time to prepare for the dismal, freezing days of winter that loom on the horizon. It is also the Halloween season, a season of fun for children who'll be creating homemade costumes for the last day of October, when they will go from door-to-door collecting sweets, fruits and other gifts.

For Flack, autumn is a time for reminiscence and insightful introspection.

On this cloudy day, he looks through the floor-to-ceiling windows of his living area at the spectacular view surveying Central Park and the eastern skyline, and thinks to himself what a lucky sonofabitch he is. Figuratively speaking, of course. His beloved mother is too much of a sweet soul to ever come close to being malicious or cruel. Unlike his father, who isn't worthy of her one bit.

The good news is, his dear old dad will never lay a hand on his mom. Never again.

His fist did all the convincing of that for him two months ago during a meal with his parents.

It had been his mother's request to have a home cooked dinner. Usually, he'd invite her out for the day and he'd treat her to somewhere really nice that served all her favorite foods, and it would be just the two of them. Mom and son, with no violent, hypocrite dad in sight. Still, every now and then, his mom would insist on him spending time with his dad and he stoically endured every get-together, for his mother's peace of mind more than anything. So when mom said, "Let's have dinner together, Donnie, as a family, in our family home," he agreed without remonstration. He can never say no to his mother.

He tried his damnest to be civil towards his father, who's officially been retired from the police force for four years now. He really did. But then his old man just had to drink too much for his own good, like the jerk did all the time, and was idiotic enough to slap his mother for trying to take away the whisky bottle.

Right in front of him.

And he finally lost it.

Flack had stomped down the urge for retaliation for _twenty years_. Nobody would really blame him for defending his mother against her abusive husband, should he have fought back in the past. Except the quandary was, as much as he hated it, the abusive asshole's his _dad._ All the punches and kicks he could have inflicted on the man wouldn't have changed that.

It would merely have turned him into the mirror image of his father.

Twenty years. Twenty long years, for him to grow from a gangly, skinny teenager into a sturdy, loyal, independent man with a resolute heart.

A man, who became greater than his father, at long last.

"You may have given me your name," he'd grinded out to his dad who was sprawled on the floor of the dining room, bleeding from the nose. "But I thank God every day that you didn't give me your _cowardice_ too."

His dad had appeared so small and pitiful then. All bullies are, once they're stripped of their armor.

His mother had ended up weeping that night, not tears of terror, but tears of relief. And after twenty years of being haunted by the memories of his beaten mother crying alone, he found liberation in holding her in his arms as she did so, reassuring her in a gruff voice that it's over, it's _over_.

For both of them.

Flack is hauled back to the present by an unexpected ray of sunlight that spills through a rift in ominous, grey clouds. The brightness inundates his tranquil, penthouse floor apartment, casting a warm glow on the interiors and antique-meets-art-deco furnishings that came packaged with the place. It flows into him, banishing the remnants of gloomy thoughts with renewed faith.

Where there is light, there is life.

Where there is life, there is love.

He basks under the sunshine for a few minutes, then ambles away from the windows and heads for his bedroom to change shirts. It's beginning to feel a little too chilly for a mere t-shirt. He moves the room's shoji door to the side. It scarcely makes a sound, which pleases him and reminds him that it had been a good decision after all to rent the place.

He had never rented an apartment with Japanese sliding doors before and it had caused him to think twice about the place at first. On the afternoon he and Hawkes came to inspect the apartment, he'd semi-joked about how he was going to end up mistaking the shoji doors for regular ones and smash right through them like paper, and was already considering another place instead. Then Hawkes had given him that gigantic smile of child-like enthrallment of his, and he was done for.

Heh. He can never say no to Hawkes either.

The amusing thing is, the man doesn't live with him. They're still living in individual apartments, though they've been together for almost six years now.

Wow, _six years_. The longest committed relationship he's ever been part of yet.

And they're still _happy_.

That's the most incredible thing about it.

His feet shuffle across the wooden-tiled, lacquered floor of his bedroom. It's nice to not have to wear shoes or slippers inside his apartment, like he did in his previous apartment that didn't have such a pleasant, smooth floor. The soles of his feet are, as Hawkes put it so eloquently, being given their daily dose of tactile stimulation.

There's a full-length mirror affixed into one door of his large wardrobe, and he stands in front of it, studying his reflection. Time has been compassionate to him. His face and general physique hasn't altered much at all, aside from a few more wrinkles on his forehead and maybe crow's feet at the ends of his blue eyes. His dark hair is as copious as ever, though there are more grey hairs now. He isn't worried about them; growing old is the inevitable course of life and he's of the opinion that aging with grace and dignity, not vanity, is the way to go. Moreover, grey and white hair is supposed to signify wisdom, so why would he want to cover up _that?_

His body still bears the same lanky, sinewy form; in fact, he's never been in such great shape as he is right now. His black t-shirt molds around broad, powerful shoulders, brawny arms and chest and a lean, flat midriff and abdomen. His legs, unseen inside a pair of loose track pants, are also well-developed and just right, neither too thin or too muscular. He has to confess, he's satisfied that he has the figure of a man ten years younger, or rather, the figure he had when he was just twenty-five. All that self-disciplined exercising and physical training is paying off by the truckloads.

All that training had saved his life too.

Flack strips off his shirt and tosses it into a laundry basket nearby.

The first thing that lures his gaze isn't the scarring on his abdomen, the ones that resulted from his near-death encounter with a bomb planted by a schizophrenic explosive expert six years before. No, he's accepted them as part of himself for many years now. Hawkes had aided him greatly in that. What lures his eyes within his reflection is a newer scar on the upper right side of his chest, one he'd acquired last year during a very critical hostage situation that involved a diner full of young children out on a school trip and one pissed off lunatic with an AK-47.

_My life is full of irony_, he thinks with a somewhat amused smirk on his lips. That day, like today, had been one of his days off duty. He had planned a nice, relaxing day of grocery shopping and maybe a trip to the cinema to watch one of the latest blockbusters and a date with Hawkes in the evening once the man's shift was over. Dressed in his black leather jacket, white t-shirt, jeans and boots, he'd been presuming, _yeah, it's gonna be a lovely day, Flackie boy_.

It had been one of his off days, with him doing nothing more than grocery shopping, so the coincidence of him ending up with bullet wounds to his right shoulder and right thigh had been about one in a _billion_. What were the odds, right?

Somebody up there definitely wasn't very happy with him that day.

It'd been much like the situation where that bomb went _kaboom_ and he got his stomach all mangled up. He had walked into the diner because he was hankering for some hamburger and fries, not knowing that he was about to run headlong into one perilous, life-threatening situation. One moment, he was standing there at the counter ordering his take away and joking around with some of the little tots who were asking him if he was a giant. The next, a hail of bullets was destroying everything in view and everybody was screaming and ducking and hiding under tables and chairs.

He didn't really feel the bullets striking his shoulder and leg. It was more like he threw himself in front and on top of the kids who were chatting with him, shielding them from the gunshots and _wham_, something icy slammed into his shoulder and _wham_, another one sliced into his thigh. He felt the little kids pressing themselves against him and their hands clinging onto him in terror a lot more.

Then, sprawled on the floor with the kids protected beneath his bulk, he saw the nutjob at the entrance of the diner with the AK-47 in hand. The perp was this short guy with a toupee that looked more like a beaver's butt, wearing a plain, buttoned-up shirt and brown trousers. Ordinary, regular-looking guy who'd be the last person anyone would think capable of coming into a cafeteria and shoot at innocent, vulnerable children.

Flack knows better. The psychos are _always_ the most ordinary, normal-looking ones.

He can't quite remember all the details of what occurred after he was shot. He recalls he scrambled his way behind a tumbled over table for protection along with four crying, shivering children. They were so scared shitless, they couldn't even make a sound. Right there and then, the armed whackjob decided to fire his weapon again, and he grabbed all four kids again and wrapped his arms and legs around them and shielded them with his body.

That was when one of the children came in contact with his gun in his jacket. He was off duty, but he'd been paranoid enough to bring it along with him, in case something bad took place.

Somebody up there wasn't _that_ unhappy with him after all.

"Don't be scared," he whispered to the kids, "I'm a _cop_. I'm one of the _good_ guys. You're gonna be _okay_, I _promise_."

The little girl who'd seen his gun had stared at him with such big, trusting eyes. He was glad all four kids were staring at him.

It was better than them staring at the dead and bloody waitress who lay just feet away.

The nutjob fired the AK-47 another time. Then the guy had yelled something along the lines of, "I want my _son! _I'm gonna _kill_ these kids unless they gimme back my _son!_"

Flack had enough, and he crept out alone on all fours from behind the table. His shoulder and thigh were starting to hurt. He didn't have much time left.

The perp had a boy and girl hostage, gripping the collars of their shirts to stop them from running. The kids were smart and stayed still, even when he dragged himself to his feet by propping himself on what was left of the dining counter. He could sense warm blood soaking his t-shirt and jeans.

He'd said something to the armed wacko about trading places with the kids and helping the whackjob get his son back if the guy did it. And against all the odds, the guy believed him and released the children. It'd been hell for him to stagger up to the perp on his injured leg. It turned out to be a minor flesh wound, though it still stung like a bitch, and the psycho didn't make the pain any less bearable by putting pressure on the gunshot wound in his right shoulder.

However, the nutjob holding on so tightly to him had been the guy's ultimate undoing.

The AK-47 was too long a weapon to aim at his head or body. The perp could only do so at the other occupants of the diner. And the perp had no idea that he's a cop and had a gun too.

In a split second, Flack pulled it out of its holster inside his jacket, pressed the tip of its barrel into the whackjob's stomach and pulled the trigger numerous times.

The entire incident was over in less than ten minutes.

Flack's recovery from his wounds had taken much longer.

The real fiasco, as luck would have it, took place _after_ the shooting. He had seclusion while recuperating in the hospital, but the privacy was very short-lived. The press had gone _nuts_ over his direct involvement in the situation and that he'd saved all twenty-six children from a horrible death, and nope, it didn't help at all that his dad's that 'legendary cop in the NYPD.' He had to attend so many press conferences about it and had _so_ many photographers and reporters tailing him for weeks, he could have sworn he turned into some Hollywood celebrity with paparazzi in tow.

It all culminated into him earning the distinguished NYPD Medal of Honor. Yeah, it's the highest law enforcement medal of the police department and the most illustrious honor a police officer could ever be bestowed. And yeah, he received his promotion straight up to first grade detective along with it, but he doesn't like talking about the award. He'd gotten so much media coverage about receiving the medal too that, _geez_, even _Aiden_ must have heard about it in the afterlife. She would have simply conked him on the head with an invisible ghost hammer or something had he yakked about it.

Well, the award ceremony hadn't been that bad. All that fake smiling and suffering through hours of boring speeches and ostentatious offers of congratulations from the higher-ups had been worth it to see the children once more and spend some time with them.

The four kids whom he'd rescued were all eight years old. The little girl who discovered he had a gun at the time of the shooting was called Mandy. She was a brown-eyed sweetheart with a maturity he never thought he'd ever see in a child, and after some conversation, he finally found out why she hadn't been afraid of his weapon like the other children. Her father was a cop too, who'd passed away from health complications her mom never talked about.

The hug she'd given him and her words of, "Thank you for saving my life, Mr. Giant. I'm glad there are still people like my daddy around," had meant more than a piece of gold metal ever would, and ever will. He still calls Mandy once in a while, to see how she and her mother are doing, and to remind himself that being a cop isn't just about protecting the people, but also to care about them.

Abruptly hit by the longing to browse through photographs of the ceremony, he swiftly plucks out a thick sweater from his cupboard and dons it. A few minutes later, he's lounging on his bed, having taken out a black photo album from the bedside drawer and looking at the pictures inside.

He skips all the photos showing him receiving the Medal of Honor. There aren't many in his album anyway; he gave most of them to his mother for her safekeeping. The first one he halts on is a horizontal picture of him with the children. They're all sitting on a long bench in the hall where the ceremony had taken place, grinning at the camera. Most of them are sitting in two rows in front of the bench, and the remaining ones are sitting on the bench with him. He's flanked by five kids on each side, Mandy next to him on his left. In any other circumstance, he would have knelt on the floor so his head would be at the same level as the children's. However, at the time of the ceremony, his right arm was still in a light sling and his right thigh was still healing, which meant he had to sit down to not aggravate his injuries.

He smiles at the photograph, then flips the page. He studies a few pictures of himself with the parents of the kids who'd been at the diner during the shooting. They are all smiling in the photos, and as he gazes at the colored images, he recalls how some of the mothers and fathers had wept while they embraced him and thanked him for saving their children. He'd come very close to tears himself at the sincerity of their gratitude.

_At the end of the day, kid_, he hears his former mentor Gavin Moran say in his thoughts, _it's not the number of awards ya win that'll tell ya how good a job you've done. It's the number of lives you've changed for the better that does._

Remembering Gavin begets a twinge in Flack's heart. It had been one of the most difficult deeds in his life to arrest his old friend and tutor. But it had to be done. Gavin had broken the law, and by the man's own teachings, deserved the punishment for it. In a way, sticking to his integrity instead of letting Gavin off the hook was a silent testament to how well the older cop had trained him to be an upstanding officer.

Feeling downhearted, Flack flicks through the rest of the pages quickly. He does smile at photographs with Hawkes and Mac and Stella in them, though. Hawkes was grinning from ear to ear that whole day. Mac and Stella had looked marvelous, particularly Mac. After marrying Stella, it was as if he was getting _younger_ by the day. Must be something in Stella's Greek food.

Even Sid Hammerback, the CSI labs' best ME and still the creepiest man Flack knows, and Adam Ross, now a third grade detective, had attended the award ceremony at his invitation and taken pictures with him. Hammerback had been the perfect choice of guest to liven up the event; by the time the guy was through describing his recent cases, he actually made some of them pompous, _I've-seen-everything-young-man _superior officers nauseous. Adam had changed significantly since Flack last met him three years ago. The young man was no longer the quiet, meek person he once was. Rather, he had matured and strengthened in character and held himself with a confident bearing that reminded Flack so much of another CSI he thought he knew.

Whatever happy feelings Flack has left evaporates when a photograph suddenly drops out from between the last couple of pages of the photo album. As he picks it up and stares at it upclose, he can merely describe what he's feeling now as bittersweet fondness.

It's a vertical photograph that reveals him and Danny from the thighs up. They're both wearing suits and ties, him in a dark grey, pin-striped suit and Danny in a near-black one. Danny's light blue tie is slightly loosened at the neck, which accentuates the man's bad boy appearance in the photo. Danny has an arm tight around his waist while he has his arm wrapped around Danny's shoulders, and they're grinning at the camera so hard their blue eyes are slitted.

The picture is almost eight years old. He knows this not because of the date printed on the right-hand corner of the photo, but because of Danny's hairstyle in it. Danny's hair is all spiked up with gel, and there are gold streaks running through it. He had loved those golden streaks. They were such a great aide memoire of Danny's rebellious nature, of Danny's _I-don't-give-a-shit-'bout-what-people-think-'cause-I-like-them_ attitude.

It had been just one of so many things that had caused him to fall in love with the CSI.

It takes a while for Flack to realize that he's tracing Danny's facial features with his fingertip. As soon as he becomes aware of it, he doesn't get irritated or upset with himself, like he used to years before. He's learned that life is much too short to harbor anger and resentment. Doing that is like drinking poison and waiting for somebody else to die, and that's plain _stupid_ in his books. Now, all he does is smile to himself, a small, poignant one, and bring to mind the good times he had with Danny.

This photo had been shot at one of the labs' annual parties, he remembers that. He and Danny had a blast that night, gobbling up all the food and challenging each other to drinking games and talking about everything under the sun.

Everything, except their secret relationship, of course.

That subject, they had later discussed while they stood outside at the main entrance to CSI headquarters. Danny wanted a smoke and he couldn't do that inside, so they'd gone down the elevator to the ground floor, just the two of them.

"Home is where the heart is," Danny said, gazing up at the city all around them with spellbound eyes. He had this serene look on his face as he exhaled white wisps of smoke between puckered lips.

Flack raised his head and beheld the same splendid vista with warm eyes. God, he knew exactly what Danny meant.

"Damn _straight_."

The shorter detective let out a soft cackle, took one last puff on his cigarette and then stubbed it out on the trash bin nearby.

"Remember what I said?" Danny asked once he was back at Flack's side.

"Remember what?"

"You know." Danny tilted his head at an angle, sending him a meaningful gaze. "'Bout you bein' New York city."

Flack's lips curved up in a tender smile. "Yeah. 'Bout me bein' full a' _smog_ and _rude people _and _high rent?_"

Danny was smiling, but the man had that look in his eyes again, that compelling look that hypnotized Flack to the spot.

"Home is where the heart is, Don."

All of a sudden, Danny was standing mere inches apart from him. Danny's face was so close, Flack could sense the other man's breath brushing his lips and chin.

"New York city is my home … and home is where the heart is."

_Oh God._

Flack's return to the present is so unexpected that he jerks hard where he lies on his bed. He shoots up to a sitting position, his big eyes wide with comprehension, his back ramrod straight in incredulity. His photo album falls off his lap and onto his bed. The photograph of him and Danny, however, remains in his grasp.

Oh God. Why hasn't he ever recalled _that_ conversation?

Why hasn't he remembered it, until now?

_Home is where the heart is, Don._

Danny had looked so damn gorgeous beneath the moonlight.

_New York city is my home._

He sees those heavy-lidded blue eyes gazing at him once more, in his mind.

_You're New York city, Don._

_You're my heart._

_You're my home._

Both enlightenment and heartache assail him so hard it's as if he's been shot in the shoulder all over again.

_Oh, Danny_, a voice in his heart that he hasn't heard in a very long time murmurs, _why? Why did our love have to die, if we had already found home for our hearts, within each other?_

Memories in full Technicolor saturate his mind, taking him on a slow, meditative ride through a time when he had been with a different man, a different soul whose fiery spirit had warmed him for many dark and bleak nights. He sees Danny in the shower with his hair all foamy, sticking his tongue out in a mischievous gesture. He sees Danny striding down the corridor at the laboratories, looking at him and giving him that Cheshire cat grin. And he sees Danny lying chest down on the bed and hears the man saying sweet endearments and vows into his ear as they dance, and become one person.

_Are you okay?_ Flack's heart whispers._ Are you happy where you are, Danny? _

_Do you think about me too?_

He winds up lying upon his bed for many hours with his eyes closed, and he prays that, out there somewhere, the man whom he still loves is alright.

**vi. "These little wonders, these twists and turns of fate ..."**

The man in the reflection is one dead beat-looking bastard.

He wants to laugh at the thought, except he doesn't even have the energy to move his lips in any semblance of a smile. He squirms a bit in the bus seat, twisting around to better stare at the obscure mirror image of himself in the passenger window.

_No, scratch that_, Danny thinks to himself, _the man in the reflection looks like complete and utter shit_.

His hair's a freaking mess. That's what happens when he doesn't make an effort to go to the hair salon to get it trimmed, or gel it up like he usually does. He didn't shave either, so now his whole lower jaw is stubbly and a little itchy. It's only five minutes to nine at night but he can barely stay awake. His eyes are encircled by reddish rings, and the bags under them can probably make those beneath Mac's hazel eyes rush for their money.

He squeezes his sore eyes shut. Thinking of his former boss and friend reminds him of Stella, and thinking of Stella reminds him of the wedding invitation she'd had sent years ago. The one he never replied.

Or to be more precise, he _couldn't_.

He senses somebody pause at his row of seats. He doesn't bother to open his eyes or turn his head to look at the person, or shift his duffel bag off the seat beside his. He'd chucked it there for a reason, and he doesn't give a fuck whether it's against the rules or not. He's not in the mood for any company, _period_.

Whoever it is, the person gets the point fast. Soon enough, Danny is on his own once more.

He slumps in his seat, attempting to relax and get some decent sleep for once. All he hopes is that he isn't going to wake the whole damn bus up should he experience one of his nightmares again, and then feel like a humiliated dumbass. Sometimes, he really hates his overactive brain.

There's a mother and her young son sitting behind him.

"Mommy, what time are we going to be in Billings?"

"Hmm, around fifteen minutes to midnight. It'll be late, I know, but don't worry, daddy will be there to pick us up. Have you taken your pill?"

"Uh huh."

"Okay, we won't have to worry about any motion sickness then."

"Is there going to be _food?_"

"No, honey, but I have some crackers in my bag. You want to eat some now?"

Danny has to bite his lower lip from answering her instead.

_Yeah, lady, I sure won't mind some 'cause I haven't eaten a friggin' thing in almost one and half days._

Right then and there, his stomach starts to emit rumbling noises, and he curses it along with his brain. He folds his arms over his belly. Shit, okay, he'll have to buy something to eat at the next stop.

And it _won't_ have any _wheat_ in it.

After some time, the inner growling stops. So does most of the chattering and noises of people stowing their luggage and getting into their seats. Danny hears somebody walking down the aisle in the center of the bus, then back up again, all the way to the front of the vehicle. Has to be the operator counting passengers or something.

"Ladies and gentlemen, thank you for travelling with Greyhound Lines and Rimrock Trailways," the operator announces over the wireless PA system a few minutes afterwards. "Your next stop is Billings, Montana. We hope you'll enjoy your journey …"

Danny tunes out whatever else is being broadcasted. It's the same old monologue where you're promised _everything_ will be just _fine_ and that you're going to have a _good_ time and it'll be the _best_ thing you _ever_ experienced and you'll want to come back _over_ and _over _again -

_Bullshit_.

He's heard it all before, once whispered to him in such a harmless, saccharine voice.

"_I know it's a big move and you're feeling doubtful about things, but you'll love Montana, trust me." _

Just remembering the words causes him to grit his teeth until the muscles in his jaws are aching.

"_You'll love the wheatfields more than the New York skyline, you'll see."_

God, how could he have ever chosen to _believe_ that?

It was all a big, fat lie.

The last _seven_ _years_ of his life was all a big, fat lie.

And the worst part is, it's his own fault. Like everything else that's happened to him ever since he left New York. His choice. His own fucking fault.

It's proof of how groggy he is that ten minutes pass before he's conscious of the bus already moving on the Interstate 90 East highway that'll transport them straight down to Billings. There's nothing to see outside apart from other vehicles on the road, and he tugs the curtain over his window to shut out glaring car headlights. Sighs when he reclines his seat back and wriggles into a more comfortable position.

The seats in this bus are _better_ than those in an airplane's economy section, which is somewhat startling. Looks like he made the wiser choice of travelling by bus than by air.

He couldn't afford the airfare anyway.

She and that sonofabitch Armstrong had taken it all from right under his nose. And he never knew it, not till it was too late.

If recalling what Lindsay had said to him years ago back in New York city infuriates him, thinking about his CSI partner back in Bozeman, his _ex-_partner, makes his blood boil hotter than magma.

That _sonofabitch_. That dirty rat _bastard_ had something against him from the very beginning, the _instant_ they met at the Bozeman CSI laboratories. Oh, sure, Lindsay had persuaded him otherwise, telling him Daniel Armstrong was a _nice_ guy, a _wonderful_ CSI whom she'd worked with, and they'd get along _great_.

He should have known better. He should have followed his gut instincts.

He should never have trusted Armstrong.

He wouldn't have gotten all the scars on his arms if the bastard had done his job and looked out for him, instead of hanging him out to dry and letting that druggie slash him with a switchblade.

The bastard should have had his back.

Like Flack would have.

It's a good thing that it's become dark inside the bus, what with most passengers having switched off their overhead lights to doze until they arrived at the destination. The shadows are a boon to Danny as he rubs at his eyes and cheeks. He wipes his damp hands on his faded jeans to dry them.

He's such a fool, the worst kind of fool. Thinking that a lie within a lie would make a truth if he believed hard enough.

He believed separating himself from Flack had been the best thing for both of them, that Flack would be much better off without him in his life. Who wants somebody like him? A screw-up. An emotional roller coaster of a human being who constantly gets into trouble, no matter where he goes.

A loser, who always hurts the people he loves, one way or another.

Flack deserved somebody so much better. Thing is, the man _had_ found somebody, hadn't he? Hawkes. Stable, big-hearted, intellectual Hawkes. Everything that Danny isn't. Therefore, looking at the big picture, it _had_ been the right decision to break things off with Flack. Flack _had_ found somebody so much better.

Still, it doesn't rip him up any less knowing any of that.

In reality, it hasn't stopped hurting at all, for seven years straight.

He believed leaving New York for Montana with Lindsay would lessen his feelings for Flack. He believed he'd go far away, far enough that he could simply forget the handsome homicide detective who was his best friend and more. And he believed he'd live the American dream, like every other regular American guy. Settle down with a woman. Live in a nice, suburban house with a white picket fence. Work a nine-to-five job. Have 2.4 kids.

Work, work, work, earn money, money, money until retirement.

That is, if he's lucky and even lives that long.

Funny, how that whole plan had actually sounded okay before. Funny, how it now just sounds like his worst nightmare.

Danny rolls on his side to face the window. He zips up his jacket to the collarbones and sticks his hands below his underarms to warm them. It's becoming colder inside the bus. Or maybe it's only him, feeling like ice everywhere. He's forgotten what it feels like to be warm.

_Flack always was warm like the sun_, he thinks.

The smile on Flack's face, in that front page newspaper special about the man receiving the NYPD Medal of Honor, had been just as bright.

That had been over two years ago, Danny reminisces, that time when he came across the article. He had endured an awful night shift at the labs. _Tons_ of work carried over from day shift and he had to deal with most of the load too, since he was 'that guy from the big city who knows _everything_.' Which he _didn't_. Friggin' Armstrong was the one who'd spread the rumor that he was just some cocky city guy who thought he was better than country folk.

He definitely hadn't thought that way at all. Sure, he was confident about his skills as a CSI and he saw no shame in standing up for himself. Mac hadn't picked him out of thousands of prospective graduates for nothing. And sure, he wasn't afraid of speaking his mind whenever he felt something wasn't right. Didn't automatically make him an arrogant jerk who thought he was above everybody else.

That particular night shift, he doesn't want to think about much. Armstrong had been his typical thick-skinned self and made a lousy night intolerable. It was the eventual morning that has caught in his thoughts all this time.

Lindsay had already left their apartment by the time he shuffled in through the front door, at sunrise. That was something positive; by that time in their relationship, they rarely had anything nice to say to each other. It was either tolerate one another with edgy silence, or argue about why he had no reason to go back to New York and why he should be thinking about their future instead, think about saving money to get a house, get married, get joint bank accounts, think about themthem_them_.

It's unbelievable, he realizes in retrospection, that in all seven years, she never once asked him what _he_ wanted for a future.

So, there he was, alone in the apartment and he noticed the rolled-up newspaper for the day on the coffee table as he was brewing some tea and making some toast for himself. There was still a rubber band around it, indicating that Lindsay hadn't read it. He'd felt like crap all the way back, but seeing as he had the whole place to himself for a change, he felt rejuvenated from the rare privacy.

Seating himself at the coffee table with his hot drink and food, he figured it'd be the same old news like yesterday. Lots of death here and there, car accidents, thefts, maybe a farmer robbed of cows now and then, yaddayaddayadda.

He sure as hell hadn't anticipated seeing a humongous, full-color photograph of Flack on the front page.

He sure as hell was glad he was alone too. It would have been beyond embarrassing to rationalize to Lindsay why his eyes brimmed up with tears at the mere sight of the homicide detective. Maybe he wouldn't have had to. He'd always suspected that she found out about his previous relationship with Flack at one time or another. Why else would she have been so adamant on preventing him from leaving Montana, from returning to New York, even if it was just for a short visit?

Why else would she have continuously dredged up the fact that Flack never gave a damn about him leaving or said goodbye to him?

If only she knew, that the reason Flack never did so was because he never _told_ Flack he was going to leave. Because he would have stayed at the slightest plea from the other man. And Flack would have been trapped with him, and Flack deserved better than that.

He'd stared at the newspaper picture of Flack for a long time. His tea had gone tepid by the time he forced himself to reach for his mug for a sip. Flack looked _stunning_. It was the only word he could think of. Stunning in the sense that time hadn't touched him at all. The man was as handsome and dashing as ever. Big, blue eyes, those dark pink lips spread in that dazzling grin. All that dark, thick hair with hardly a gray or white strand in sight, and the elegant suit, always the suit. The sling around Flack's right arm didn't do a thing to diminish the guy's flair. Flack was all class, every time.

He was so proud of Flack after he read the whole story about Flack risking his life to save all those children from that armed maniac. Not many cops would have had the guts to do what Flack did, especially after getting shot twice. Then again, Flack's one of a kind. The real deal. A soul who comes along once in a millennia.

_That's my Don_, he had thought with a smile, _that's my brave, noble hero_.

And then, his joy disintegrated as soon as that voice in his head reminded him he had no right to consider Flack his. Not anymore.

He'd kept that newspaper page in a secret box in his cupboard, along with a variety of other objects that are for his eyes alone. Pictures of Flack, in his suits or plain clothes. Pictures of him together with Flack. Some purple-prosed, silly love letters Flack had handwritten for him to cheer him up after a bad week. A little dreamcatcher Flack bought for him in jest many years ago. It has a hole in it, which may be why he's still plagued by miserable dreams of Flack turning his back on him, walking away from him.

They're all inside the duffel bag next to him right now, and they're possibly the only possessions he has left in the world that mean anything and everything to him.

They're the only pieces of Flack he has left.

He must have fallen asleep at some point, for he abruptly jolts awake at the operator announcing, "The layover is about forty-five minutes. If you're travelling on to Fargo, North Dakota, please return to the bus by 1:45am. Thank you."

The bus is half-empty as he sits up and glances over the top of the seats. Some of the remaining passengers are toddling out of the vehicle, and if they're like him and journeying onwards, they're most likely going out for a breath of fresh air or a break to the restroom or a quick snack. He takes his spectacles from one of his jacket pockets, rubs his eyes then puts his glasses on. Swings his duffel bag around his shoulder, and waits until the aisle is clear before getting out himself. He's feeling claustrophobic all of a sudden. He never likes being stuck in small places for long periods of time with nothing to do.

Guess that's why he loves New York city so much. There's always somewhere to go, something to do, somebody to see there.

Outside, it's chilly and dark and quiet, like most places usually are at this hour of the morning. There's nothing much to see at the bus terminus. It's the same like any other bus station in the country; an enormous facility with food service, lavatories, baggage storage areas and offices, with multiple doorways to load and unload multiple buses simultaneously.

Danny mulls over whether to fire up a cigarette or not. He pats the upper left pocket of his jacket, where his carton of cigs is. From the way it flattens under his hand, he can tell there are only a few sticks left in the packet. No, he'll save them for when he's _really_ in the dumps. For now, food is his top priority.

He wanders into the grand hall of the station and heads straight for the cafeteria at the other end. Buys himself a pastrami sandwich and a cup of hot tea, and sits alone at the waiting area of the grand hall, watching people walk to and fro, climbing in and out of buses, babbling to each other, eating and drinking like he is, napping in seats nearby while they wait for whatever it is they're waiting for. Considering how drained he is, he's not far from being able to trick himself into thinking he's in a bus terminal somewhere in NYC.

Needless to say, his worn-out brain tells him there's no way in hell that'll ever happen.

For one thing, even though Billings is the largest city in Montana, it only has a population of over a hundred thousand. New York city alone houses more than 18.8 million people. Another thing is, it won't make a difference how tired or how incapacitated he is. He'd know when he's not in NYC.

He'd know when he isn't home.

Danny devours his sandwich in a few mouthfuls. It's scarcely the best he's ever eaten, but _damn_, it was delicious. The tea heats him up right quick too, and soon, he's feeling a million times better in body, if not in soul. He gets up to throw away the empty cup and paper bag that held his sandwich in the rubbish bin at the end of his row of seats.

That's when he sees the payphones on the wall a couple of feet away.

Yet again, he has to battle the uncontrollable impulse to use one of them to call a certain homicide detective over two thousand miles away.

He still has his mobile phone. The batteries are dead, but even if they weren't, he won't use it to call. It's too risky. Flack, in all probability, will have some phone number recording device in case he gets … weird calls or something. And although he's changed his number over the years, he's still paranoid that Flack will know it's him.

Why the hell would Flack want to even _talk_ to him?

_Hey, Don. Yeah, it's me, the lowlife jerk who decided to fuck around with a co-worker behind your back 'cause I thought you'd be better off without me and I didn't know how to break things off without havin' to say it to your face. So how ya doin'? Ya happy without me? Do ya still hate my guts and wish I was dead? Yeah … I wish I was dead too, 'cause that's how much it hurts right now._

_I'm so sorry for what I did to you. Guess it's karma bitin' me in the ass, huh? 'Cause now I know exactly how ya felt then. And ya wanna know somethin' funny? It hurts so much more to know that this is how I made ya feel, when I didn't mean to at all. Hurts more than findin' Armstrong naked in the bedroom with her._

_I'm so sorry, Don._

_I miss you like crazy. I think 'bout you all the time._

_Do you think 'bout me too?_

He spins around and stomps away from the payphones, striding as far away from them as possible, his blue eyes stinging.

Temptation, bad. Very bad.

Heartrending, disemboweling kind of bad.

Later, Danny finds himself back on the bus in the same seat, sitting in the same position facing the same window as the bus voyages down the Interstate 94 East highway towards Fargo, North Dakota. He ignores the throbbing of his right forefinger and the persistent sensation of the payphone's receiver against his face on top of the despondency that he feels within him. The next two days are going to be pure hell of being trapped in five different buses with merely short intervals of respite, and he's not looking forward to it at all.

_It'll be worth it_, that voice somewhere in his soul assuages him while he semi-dozes, his jacket taken off and now tucked around his shoulders and torso as a makeshift blanket.

_He's worth it_.

With that conviction warming him like no fire can, Danny drifts off into a deep slumber as the bus heads eastward of the country, praying with all his heart that the man he still loves is alright.

**vii. "Time falls away, but these small hours, these small hours still remain ..."**

In early winter, and almost a year before Danny abandons the life he's endured for so long in Bozeman, Montana, Flack is attending a children's charity function together with Hawkes in the Big Apple. It's one of those dinners that's more of a frontage for the upper-class bigwigs of the city to convene and show themselves off in the spotlight. Show the world how _good_ at heart, how generous, how compassionatethey are.

_What a load of crap_, Flack thinks vehemently to himself, his brows low in a frown.

None of them give a damn about the orphaned children with AIDS for whom the charity's established. They're all just here to take advantage of those kids' suffering to buy glory and worldly admiration for themselves with their money.

Flack _loathes_ hypocrisy like that. He detests it even more when it gets shoved in his face repeatedly and he can't do a freaking thing aside from grind his teeth and keep his clenched hands put safely away in his trouser pockets. Like what this random, filthy rich old lady who's yammering her head off at him is doing right now. The jewel-laden socialite isn't even aware he's not listening to a damn word she's saying.

"… It was just so _awful_ how _slow_ the service was! You would _think_ they would know to _serve_ us at a _timely_ fashion. How embarrassing it had been to be left standing at the entrance of a five-star restaurant! I made sure that my Alfred reprimanded the waiters with a few choice words. I'm sure _you_ would have done the same, Det. Flack …"

Flack forced his lips into a polite smile.

_Sure, lady, I've got a few choice words for ya too -_

Deliverance unexpectedly arrives in the form of Hawkes, dressed in a fine and classy tuxedo and tie just like he is.

"I'm sorry to interrupt the conversation, but I need to speak with Det. Flack in private," Hawkes says with a genial smile to Flack's verbal tormenter. "If you'll please excuse us."

Hawkes' brilliant grin must have stunned the woman silly, for she was still blubbering and tittering to herself as Hawkes led him away to where a vast banquet of western and oriental dishes was spread at the opposite side of the ballroom turned dining area.

"You're a _lifesaver_, Sheldon. I thought she was gonna drive me _nuts_," Flack mutters under his breath.

Hawkes snickers softly. "You looked like you were about to _explode_."

"I _was_." Flack plucks up a square-shaped piece of chocolate from a dessert tray and pops it into his mouth. "She was talkin' to me like I'm supposed to _know_ her or somethin' and goin' _on _and _on_ 'bout lousy service and what not - it's just crazy. I dunno most of these people and I don't even have an _ounce_ a' cash power like all these wealthy folks do and yet, I got invited."

"Well, I have a feeling you're the _press magnet_," Hawkes replies with an amused smirk. "If you know what I mean."

"Oh, that's just great, I'm the _pretty face_."

That gets Hawkes chuckling outright. "You _are_ a pretty face."

Flack opens his mouth to respond, and then almost falls flat on his ass when Hawkes suddenly lurches forward and collides into him.

"_Oof!_"

He swiftly flings his arm to the side and catches the edge of one of the tables, gripping Hawkes upright with his other arm.

There's a mortified shriek coming from somewhere behind Hawkes.

Then a loud, muffled thud as something heavy tumbles to the floor.

Some of the other guests swivel their heads in their direction in curiosity.

"Oh my God, I'm _so_ sorry! I didn't mean to - my heel just _broke_ -"

"It's okay, no harm done. Are you _alright? _Here, let me help you up."

By the time Flack has balanced himself again, he sees Hawkes assisting a slender woman in a dark red evening gown to her feet. She's raised up the hem of her dress and she's looking at the busted heel of her left shoe in mild dismay. Her long black hair is concealing her face from Flack's view.

"I'm _so_ sorry, I didn't mean to _bump_ into you like that -"

"It's _okay_, really. I'm just fine -"

He notices that Hawkes is grasping the woman's hand.

In the months to come, Flack will remember that image well. That moment, that single instant, when Hawkes and the beautiful African woman, whose name he'll learn is Angela Kilroe, gaze into each other's eyes for the first time.

Time itself glides to a halt. Everyone and everything else in the ballroom fades into nothing, and all Flack sees is Hawkes smiling at the dark-skinned beauty and her returning it with equal radiance. They're talking to each other, and he doesn't hear anything. He doesn't need to.

He knows what they're probably saying to one another.

He knows how things are probably going to roll in the consequent days ahead.

He's witnessed something similar with his very own eyes before, over seven years ago in the tigers' cage of the city zoo.

He knows it when he sees it.

The beginning of the end.

The difference this time is, he doesn't feel any agony from the realization, not this time. Yes, he's been very happy with Hawkes for many blessed years and he has treasured every moment of their time together.

But nothing lasts forever.

And he would be a liar, if he said that a great part of himself hasn't been in Danny's possession always.

The rest of the night of that charity event until they went to Hawkes' apartment is a blur in Flack's memory. He somewhat recalls driving Angela back to her apartment, and Hawkes conversing with her the whole time she was in the car. Angela's a doctor who worked with HIV-infected children in South Africa and had recently transferred from Johannesburg to New York city to work in the Aaron Diamond AIDS Research Center. Hawkes had been transfixed by her stories of her former life back in her home country, and at the end of the ride, Angela had handed Hawkes her phone number before getting out of the car.

It's apparent to Flack that she had left a profound impression on the man.

"Wow, she's really something," Hawkes says later, as they go up the elevator to his apartment. His brown eyes are alit with a brightness that isn't simply from the glow emanating from the ceiling.

"Yeah, she is."

Flack doesn't say anything else. There isn't anything else to say.

It's a very odd feeling, to know a man has fallen in love when that man himself doesn't even know it yet. Even odder, that the man is his long-time lover and friend, and he's not angry in any way with Hawkes for being besotted with a woman he's just met.

That is, perhaps, the most illuminating sign of all that their life together is gradually reaching the finish line.

For a while after that dinner, things seem to have returned to their accustomed states. Hawkes remains his demonstrative, open self. They still go out on dates and make love like they always have, with no hesitation or disinclination or deceit. Angela Kilroe is rarely mentioned or spoken about, except when Hawkes wants to have lunch or dinner with her to discuss her work in AIDS research. Hawkes never lies to him or hides any of these meetings from him. If truth be told, Hawkes insists on him coming along for every appointment. Hawkes' interest is genuine; the man has a very soft spot for the welfare of children, particularly those in hardship.

Thus, for a little while, Flack doubts his intuition about their relationship coming to an end. He has been wrong about many things before.

He may be wrong again.

The six million dollar question is, does he _want _to be wrong this time?

He is indecisive about the answer, and that's the scariest thing about it.

It's an unusually sunny day on a late winter afternoon when Hawkes shows up at his front door with a very solemn countenance. One look into Hawkes' bloodshot eyes, and Flack is in his kitchen, brewing up some hot tea.

_This is it_, a voice in Flack's mind whispers, _this is the day where it'll all end_.

His lover's atypical silence unsettles him, but he stays quiet, waiting for the other man to begin the conversation first. He passes Hawkes a cup of tea, and stands near the floor-to-ceiling windows of the living area, drinking from his own cup.

It's such a lovely day, with the sun blazing in its full glory in the vivid blue sky. There's no snow today, although it did snow a little the day before. It would have been much more fitting, had it been dim, gloomy and raining.

There is always a calm before the storm, and the calm has long ebbed away.

"The heart is a really unpredictable thing," Hawkes murmurs in a husky voice after a long time, while sitting on the couch. "Just when you think you've finally gained control over it … it makes sure to remind you that you don't. That you _never _did."

Holding his cup of tea in his right hand, Flack goes to sit down on the sofa perpendicular to the one Hawkes is seated on. Try as he might to disregard it, there's a slight trembling in his legs.

It's ironic, just absurdly ironic, that they are sitting in the exact position that they once did in the living room of Hawkes' old apartment. The night he and Hawkes became lovers, all those years ago. And their stances are precise, right down to the way they're clutching to their drinks as if that is the sole thing that'll keep them from doing something irreversible.

Like forming a potent, passionate relationship that has survived for years.

Or splitting it.

Hawkes' full lips part to say more, and instead of words, all that comes out is a heartwrenching sob that pierces Flack to his very core.

Flack hastily removes the half-full mug from Hawkes' loose hand and places it, along with his own, on the low coffee table in front of them. His body and arms shift on their own accord, and in a heartbeat, he's seated beside Hawkes, drawing his lover and friend into his embrace.

Hawkes has covered his face with his hands. His shoulders quaver under Flack's arms.

"I'm so sorry, Don … you don't deserve this."

Moisture springs to Flack's eyes, though not from Hawkes' vocal acknowledgement of what he has known all along. It is the genuine anguish he hears in Hawkes' voice that makes his heart bleed.

"I don't know how it - I _just_ … I never meant for this to happen. Ever," Hawkes says into the hollow of his throat. "I don't know how it happened."

Flack leans his chin on top of Hawkes' head as he gazes outside through the glass windows at the panorama of his beloved home city. Sunlight is glinting off the tips of skyscrapers, and through his distorted vision, it's as if he's staring at a floating sea of diamonds.

"Do you love her?"

His gentle question echoes in the expanse of his living room.

Hawkes immediately shoots upright, going ramrod straight. The man's glistening eyes are so wide, the whites are visible around the brown irises.

"I …"

"Do you love her, Sheldon?"

A tense minute ticks by.

"Yes."

It had been very difficult for Hawkes to confess that, Flack can tell. Hawkes hadn't looked him in the eye. The older detective's lower lip is trembling, and his face is crumpled in a way that can only be when a man is in immeasurable pain that attacks the soul.

"Do you see yourself with her? As a family, with children?"

Hawkes' head snaps up at that. For a moment, they gaze at each other, and then, Hawkes swivels his head away to stare downwards at a spot on the floor near his feet. The CSI doesn't - _can't_ - say anything, and Flack doesn't fault him for it.

Flack reaches out a hand to stroke away the wetness streaking Hawkes' cheek.

"I haven't forgotten, Sheldon … what you told me, 'bout wantin' a _family_, and _children_."

Hawkes is shaking his head from side to side.

"Hey, don't gimme that," Flack continues in a tender tone, cupping the other man's cheek. "I don't forget things easy, you know that. You once told me ya wouldn't mind gettin' _married_ someday … have a few children and even _adopt _a few, remember?"

Hawkes is looking him in the eye now, that oh-so-familiar luster of resolve in those brown eyes.

"Things _change_."

"Yes." Flack's lips curve up in a loving smile. "Exactly."

And slowly , the enormity of his words registers on Hawkes.

"No."

Hawkes is shaking his head again. Whether it's in denial of his feelings or the refusal to accept Flack's tolerance of the situation, Flack isn't certain.

"_No_, it'll _pass_, Don, this is - this is just a _phase_, that's all. I'll stop talking to her - it'll … it'll _pass_ -"

"Sheldon."

Hawkes clams up fast, chewing on his lower lip. Those kind, brown eyes are gleaming once more.

"We both know this is it," Flack says calmly.

The ensuing silence carries the weight of an entire mountain.

Flack blinks a few times to clear his sight. It's unexplainable, how seeing Hawkes with his head moving from side to side and bowed that way, hugging himself and weeping with such remorse hurts him a million times more than knowing their intimate relationship is over. That it's over, because of a woman.

Just like the last time.

"I feel like I'm _betraying_ you," Hawkes whispers. "Like -"

The name Hawkes is about to pronounce becomes unstated, but it reverberates in the air, in Flack's heart.

In all the years they have been together, they've never discussed Danny's infidelity nor his furtive departure from NYC, not after that night when Flack had broken down and cried in Hawkes' bathroom. No purpose in bringing up the past that can't be altered, or the sorrow that has never really gone away.

"Doc, look at me."

Hawkes lifts his head with the lassitude of a man decades older. The self-approach so palpable on the CSI' mien compels Flack to run a hand down the side of Hawkes' face and then rub his thumb against that defined lower jaw.

"What Danny did to me … that was different. _Really _different," Flack says in a steady voice. "Yeah, I _was_ angry at what he did, but not as angry as knowin' that he _lied _to me. The _whole_ time. Do ya understand?"

Hawkes is quiet, though Flack receives a wordless answer in the form of a tentative nod.

"This is _different_, Sheldon. _We're_ different, because you _never _lied to me. I mean, _look _at us … we're _talkin'_ 'bout it right now. You could have had an affair behind my back, you could have -"

"_No_, I'd _never_ -"

"See?" Flack sends the other man an acutely fond smile. "That's _exactly_ what I mean." He moves closer to Hawkes and envelops an arm around Hawkes' waist, touching their cheeks together.

"Look at you. You could have had an affair with Angela behind my back, and I probably wouldn't have known it. But you _didn't_. No, instead, you chose to see me, you chose to tell me the _truth_. And that takes courage."

"It still doesn't make it right, Don," Hawkes murmurs.

"Like ya said, the heart's a really unpredictable thing. If it was _that_ easy to tell it what to feel, I don't think the world would be as fucked up as it is today. I'll be honest … I'm not ecstatic that this has happened, but I'm not angry either. I'm really not."

Before Hawkes can reply, Flack adds, "I know what you're goin' through, Sheldon, 'cause I _know_ what it's like to have a heart I can't control."

Sure enough, the instant the words leave his mouth, a familiar, blue-eyed detective materializes in his mind. Danny is reclining on the bed, in his white tank top and jeans, smoking a cigarette. It's a memory of Danny when they were still together, before everything fell apart, and Flack knows this because Danny is smiling at him, those heavy-lidded eyes crinkled in a way he once believed was his alone.

"You still love him, don't you?"

There is no trace of resentment in Hawkes' voice at all, only benign comprehension.

Flack manages a smirk. "Call me brainless but … yeah, I do. Sometimes I wish I didn't, but I do."

They sit together on the couch with their hands clasped and their heads touching for some time. Flack watches the sunlight reflecting off the steel surfaces of Hawkes' watch, and the way their fingers are intertwined, dark skin on light. Gradually, this is the image that replaces the one of Hawkes grasping Angela's hand. This is the memory he will keep to heart whenever he thinks of Hawkes, whenever he feels alone and wishes to remember what love really means.

"You don't deserve this, Don."

Hawkes' voice is a lot less gravelly now.

"So whaddaya want me to do? Ya want me to _chain_ us together? Even though we both know we won't be happy?" Flack replies gently. "That we'd be living a _lie?_"

Hawkes has no response to his questions.

"That'd be _wrong_, Doc. That ain't love, that isn't what love is all 'bout at all … Yeah, sure, at this point, if ya wanna decide to continue our relationship and cut off ties with Angela, ya could still do that. We always have choices. But ya gotta ask yerself, are you gonna do it 'cause ya _really_ believe it's just a phase with her, or 'cause ya feel _bad_ for me? 'Cause if it's the latter, it won't end well, and we both know that too. Nothin' good ever comes outta livin' an illusion."

When Hawkes is still mute, Flack says, "Well, okay, maybe you _might_ like the whole _chain_ thing if you've been _hidin'_ yer _BDSM _tendenciesfrom me -"

He grins as Hawkes starts to snicker. One of the best things about their relationship is that they are always able to laugh together, no matter how bad things can get. Their trust towards each other encompasses all things, and Flack knows almost everything there is to know about Hawkes. Minor BDSM tendencies, he knew that _years_ ago.

His little joke seems to have done the trick of breaking the tension in the air.

Flack senses Hawkes squeezing his hand.

"You are a very extraordinary person, Don, the bravest, kindest and most loving man I have ever known. I will always love you, never doubt that."

They turn towards each other at the same time, enclosing their arms tight around one another in a tender hug that speaks of many years of friendship and devotion. Flack rests his head in the warm crook between Hawkes' neck and shoulder, and feels only love and happiness for the other man.

Life is a journey that is a collection of many shorter journeys. It is rarely an enjoyable occasion when a pleasant and joy-filled journey must come to an end, but there is always that tiny piece of hope whenever one reaches the finish line.

That small sliver of hope, that when one journey ends, a new one begins.

For Hawkes, his new voyage will commence with a woman called Angela Kilroe, whom he'll end up marrying in a few months' time. As for Flack, his path will take him wherever his heart and mind command his feet to go, like they have every time.

"I love you, I always will," Flack declares in return, and he means every word with his very soul.

Seven years ago, he and Hawkes started out falling in lust, and love had taken a while to blossom. But now, here at this place of an ending and a beginning, Flack has learned one of the simplest and yet, most astonishing lesson of all.

Lust always ends.

Love never does.

**viii. "Let it slide, let your troubles fall behind you ..."**

Hawkes' wedding with Angela is an undersized albeit picturesque event. Hawkes is an only child, and as both his parents and Angela's have passed away long ago, there aren't many relatives of the couple to be invited. Hawkes' uncle, his father's sole sibling who lives in the Bronx, attended along with his wife, three children and their children's spouses and kids. Angela's two older sisters flew in with their husbands from Johannesburg a week before the wedding. All the other guests are friends and co-workers from the CSI labs, the NYPD and the Aaron Diamond AIDS Research Center.

The exchange of vows is as moving as the one between Mac and Stella over three years ago, Flack deems. He sits together with Mac, Stella and their son Alex on the second row of pews on the left since the couple's relatives take precedence in seating.

The hush that holds sway over everyone in the church permit's the minister's low voice to be heard clearly.

"Do you, Sheldon Hawkes, take this woman, Angela Kilroe, to be your lawfully-wedded wife, to have and to hold, in sickness and in heath, to love, honor and obey, in good times and woe, for richer or poorer, keeping your solely unto her for as long as you both shall live?"

"I do."

"Do you, Angela Kilroe, take this man, Sheldon Hawkes, to be your lawfully-wedded husband, to have and to hold, in sickness and in heath, to love, honor and obey, in good times and woe, for richer or poorer, keeping your solely unto him for as long as you both shall live?"

"I do."

Alexander is sitting on his lap, bouncing in excitement like all two-year-olds do, and Flack cuddles him and gives the toddler a wide smile. Beside him, Mac and Stella are holding hands, gazing into each other's eyes and it is unmistakable that they are reliving their own blissful matrimony.

"By the authority vested in me by the State of New York, I pronounce you _husband_ and _wife_."

A grand cheer fills the air when Hawkes and Angela kiss for the first time as lawfully wedded husband and wife. Flack lifts a laughing Alex up into the air while whooping his elation, letting the child do the clapping for them both. Hawkes obviously found it funny because the smartly dressed man glances his way and sends him a gigantic, open-mouthed grin. Even the white-haired minister is smiling from ear to ear.

_It's been a fantastic day_, Flack thinks to himself much later in the evening after the delectable and fun wedding dinner. He had one hell of a time with the karaoke machine, as well as all the drinking games and the dancing, especially the dancing. He got to dance with Hawkes _and_ Angela, and everyone enjoyed themselves watching him waltz around the room with Hawkes.

He and Hawkes had danced like that many times in the past, on their own in the living area of his apartment, but that will stay their little secret. Just theirs.

He is the last in the line of guests saying their congratulations and goodbyes to the newly wedded couple at the entrance of the restaurant. He waits with patience, making small talk with those who are in the back of the line with him till he's alone with the married pair.

Hawkes appears bushed though extremely content, his face glowing with a youthfulness that is almost blinding.

"Congratulations, Sheldon," Flack utters with absolute ardor. "I'm really happy for you and Angela."

Their hug is strong and affectionate, and they hold each other's forearms in a manner only lifelong, dear friends can.

"Thank you, Don, it means a lot to me," Hawkes replies with warm, appreciative eyes.

Flack embraces the bride with identical fervor, making her and Hawkes laugh when he easily raises her five foot, slim frame off the floor.

"Take care of him for me, will ya?"

He blames the sudden tears in his eyes on the glaring light mounted on the wall behind the couple.

"Always."

He feels her squeeze his hand in reassurance, and he knows in all confidence that she will keep to her promise and love Hawkes till the end of their days. He blinks, smiles at her and squeezes her hand back. And as he watches them get into their car, Hawkes locks eyes with his, and he hears the other man's voice speak in his heart.

_I will always love you, never doubt that,_

He knows that too, in all certainty.

That night, in his bed, he spends a half hour browsing through photographs of him and Hawkes, reviving all his memories of their time together, the good and the bad. He realizes how fortunate he is that the bad times were so few. How lucky he is that he had the opportunity, the _privilege_, to have been a part of Hawkes' life. He has learned so much from the older detective, wisdom that no book or school can ever teach a person. Wisdom of life. Wisdom of the heart.

He strokes one picture, where Hawkes is sitting at his study table, concentrated on a thick forensic journal and wearing his thick-framed spectacles. He has no regrets whatsoever in letting Hawkes go. Only a selfish soul would bind a person to their own desires and place themselves above the people they supposedly love.

Hawkes is happy, and that is what counts to him.

_One day_, his heart says, _one day, you will find love again_.

Flack smiles to himself while patting the left side of his chest. Heh, thirty-six years old, and still a dreamer.

And he won't change that for the world.

**( Oooo …... oooO )**

Life goes on.

A few months pass after Hawkes' wedding like seconds. It is a scorching summer, when he receives a heartening call from the CSI. Angela is pregnant with their first child, who has been determined to be a boy. Flack is pleasantly surprised and very touched by Hawkes' decision to name the baby Don.

"He's named after you, of course," Hawkes says with much merriment over the phone. "That is, if you don't mind?"

"Of course I don't mind! How could ya ask that?"

His reply is rather gruff, but Hawkes doesn't point it out. The man understands him better than most people in the entire universe ever will. Hawkes knows the difference between him sounding annoyed and him sounding like he's about to bawl his eyes out and doesn't want anyone to know.

They chat on the phone for hours after that, talking about everything under the sun, and it strikes Flack some days afterwards that nothing has really changed in his relationship with Hawkes, apart from the cessation of all sexual contact and the adjustment to not thinking of them as lovers anymore. It seems whoever said that sex is simply the optional dessert is right after all. Desserts are nice from time to time, but who can live without the main course?

It is a good feeling, this newfound freedom and sanguinity for the future that resides within him these days. He's on his own once more. The world is his oyster again, and there are only more opportunities and new beginnings to look forward to.

And life, in the city that never sleeps, forges on.

It is early in the fall when he receives the first bizarre phone call.

Fast asleep after a very lengthy and stressful day, he is hardly pleased at being awakened at half past one in the morning, having just crashed into bed a mere twenty minutes before. He rubs his face with his hands, groaning his displeasure. If those _rookies_ have done something _idiotic _again -

He rolls on his side and makes a grab for his mobile phone from the top of the bedside table.

"Flack," he growls into the mouthpiece.

There is no reply.

The incongruous silence rouses him to total consciousness in an instant.

"_Hello? _Who is this?"

He waits for the stranger on the other side of the line to answer. He's very sure there's somebody listening, due to the background noises coming from the other end of the call. Lots of people talking and moving. A vague announcement that sounds like it's echoing in a very large space. Far away noises of vehicles moving to and fro. Noises that would belong in a busy place.

Like a transportation terminal.

A whole minute lapses, with neither person saying anything.

And then, Flack hears a faint intake of breath, and the connection is cut.

Staring at his phone, he makes a bemused face. Huh, _that_ was weird. Probably a wrong number or something. He looks closely at the number displayed on the LCD screen, and realizes that the number isn't even a New York number.

"Hn … 406?"

The calling code seems familiar, but at the moment, he's in no mood to wrack his brain attempting to recollect it. He places his phone back on his bedside table and huddles under his blanket. Within a matter of seconds, he is slumbering once more.

He receives the second peculiar call later in the day, around 2:45 PM in the afternoon. He's having his lunch at a diner with three other detectives from his precinct, and everyone glances at him when his mobile phone rings. Ever since he received that NYPD Medal of Honor, many of his peers have behaved towards him with something akin to awe and nervousness.

Well, except for the detectives around him right now.

And he's _very_ grateful about that.

"Oh, _Flack_, is it yer _secret girlfriend?_" Vicaro mumbles around a mouth full of pepperoni pizza. "Ya afraid a' answerin' her call in front of a _hot stud _like _me_, huh?"

Vicaro's being his typical smug, swaggering self. Just what the doctor ordered for a nice, healthy trade of smartass comebacks. However, before Flack can respond to the guy, his massive colleague of a homicide detective called Rafael D'Anda retorts on his behalf.

"_You?_ A _hot stud? HAH!_"

"_Shaddup_, D'Anda! You wouldn't know what a hot stud is even if it _hit_ ya in the _face!_"

"_Ooooo_, _Vicaro_, is that yer way of askin' me out on a _date?_" D'Anda flutters his eyelids in a dramatic, feminine fashion, and it cracks Flack up. How can he not find a seven-foot giant with bushy eyebrows and one hell of a masculine face doing that to be funny?

"I'd rather date a piece of _rotten pie _'fore I date _you_."

"Is that what the last woman you hit on said to _you_, Vicaro?" Angell asks, finally joining the sarcastic banter. She's the one woman sitting at their table, and she's handling all three of them just fine.

_She's one tough cookie_, Flack thinks with a great measure of respect. He isn't the only one who's been shot in the past. Angell had gotten hit in the stomach during a robbery gone bad four years ago, and almost died of exsanguination from her injury. D'Anda and Vicaro might tease her a lot, but they know where to draw the line. They'd be D-U-M-B to piss off a champion sharpshooter like her.

D'Anda is laughing his head off at a sputtering Vicaro as Flack answers his phone.

"Flack."

Like the first call, no one replies.

And like the first call, he's hearing those same background noises generally associated with transportation terminals. People talking and bustling about, somebody broadcasting some message through a PA system, heavy vehicles moving in and out.

_Maybe it's an airport terminal, or a train station_, Flack muses, _or even a bus station_.

"Who's on the line?"

Nothing but silence.

He listens harder, tuning out the background sounds and hears very subdued breathing. There is _definitely_ somebody on the other end.

"_Hello?_"

The call abruptly disconnects.

His brows lower in an irritated frown. What the _hell? _Is somebody _prank_ _calling_ him or what?

"You okay, Flack?" Angell asks after sipping some coffee.

Flack stares at the unfamiliar number displayed on his phone's LCD screen, then says, "Hey, you guys know which state has the calling code of _701?_"

"701?" Vicaro scratches at his chin in deliberation. "Ain't that … New Mexico?"

"_Naw_," D'Anda says. "New Mexico's code is 505."

"It's North Dakota."

Flack, Vicaro and D'Anda turn their heads to look at Angell at the same time.

"Ya sure?" Flack asks.

"Yep, I'll bet a hundred bucks on it," Angell states with a grin.

"Ooh, a _bettin'_ lady," Vicaro drawls while leering at her. "So. How 'bout we go on a _date_, you and I?" He waggles his eyebrows.

"Not on your _life_."

"Okay." Vicaro gestures with his chin at D'Anda, who's munching on the last slice of the pizza. "How 'bout _his_ life?"

"_Hey!_"

Their amusing repartee seems to grow fainter in Flack's ears. He's gone back to staring at the unknown phone number on the LCD screen, and somehow, he just knows that it's the same person who called him much earlier in the morning.

But from two different _states_ in such a short period of time?

There's only one surefire way to get to the bottom of these weird phone calls.

**( Oooo …... oooO )**

His phone records are mailed to his precinct and delivered to his office three days later.

In the initial two days, he received three more quiet phone calls from his mysterious caller. One, he'd gotten while he was in the shower at 8:30 PM on the same day he went for lunch with Angell, D'Anda and Vicaro. The next one, he picked up at seven in the morning as he was preparing to leave for work. That particular call stood out from the rest; he heard an, "I -" before the connection was severed. He only wished it had been quieter on the opposite end. He would have been able to better hear the voice and maybe even identify it.

The last call had come in yesterday morning. He had answered it a few minutes after climbing out of bed, and the calling code in the number for it is one he instantaneously recognized.

The call had originated from Newark, New Jersey.

Just a little over ten miles from New York city.

Arriving at his office at eight o'clock on the dot, he seats himself behind his desk and sees an A4-sized brown envelope on the table top. Picks up the thin envelope and takes a swift look at the sender's address. Yep, Adam had been true to his word of providing him with a detailed record of calls made to his mobile phone as soon as possible, within twelve hours of his request to the CSI detective too.

_Dependable at all times, that guy_, Flack thinks with a satisfied smile.

He sifts through the list, eliminating the familiar numbers until he's marked out the anonymous one with a neon yellow highlighter pen.

Five phone calls.

In about two days.

From five different states.

He flicks through the few pages to the earliest call.

And his heart skips a beat upon seeing the name of the city and state listed next to the unknown number.

"Billings … _Montana?_"

His fingers skim down the page to the next call.

"Fargo, North Dakota," Flack murmurs to himself. Angell had been right about the calling code belonging to that state.

He flips the page to the third call.

"Minneapolis, Minnesota."

He reads the name of the city and state for the fourth call.

"Chicago, Illinois."

There's a pattern here, a very significant pattern that his brain is telling him he _has_ to unearth, no matter what. He doesn't look at the details for the last one since he already knows the call is from New Jersey.

There is a map of the entire country that he pasted onto the surface of his desk, underneath a wide piece of transparent glass on top of which he works on.

"Okay … okay, let's follow the yellow brick road here."

He finds Billings, Montana on the map and starts to trace the route towards Fargo, North Dakota. Sure enough, he discovers it, along with the other listed cities, as he moves his forefinger eastward all the way to Newark, New Jersey. The cities align in an crooked though almost horizontal line.

All along the major highways that someone would use to travel by road.

To travel over two thousand miles in two days, there's no way it could have been by car, unless the person stayed awake for over forty-eight hours straight and drove at insane speeds at a relentless pace.

Which means, his mysterious caller must have been travelling by _bus_.

His forefinger is pointing directly at New Jersey on the map. A mere fingertip away is NYC.

What's the closest city to Billings, Montana?

His heart begins to thump faster as he retraces the route back towards the location of the very first anonymous call. His finger halts on Billings.

His gaze shifts a tiny amount to the left of his fingertip.

And the whole world freezes on its axis.

"Bozeman."

The city's name causes his belly to clench hard. The one and only time he had heard that name was when he met a certain CSI who hailed from that very city.

"_Hi, I'm Lindsay Monroe. I just transferred here from Bozeman, Montana."_

"_Montana. Land of the wheatfields and cows, huh?"_

"_Hah, that's right!"_

Flack covers one fisted hand with his other hand, leans his forehead on them and shuts his eyes. A heavy sigh leaves his lips.

There's no way in fuck all that Lindsay is the one who's been calling him like this or travelling from Bozeman all the way here. They were never on friendly terms, and he had next to zero reasons to be pleasant to her by the end of it all.

So, all this can only mean _one_ thing.

Flack's mind is criticizing him for bringing his hopes up so much so soon, but it is his heart that he listens to, as he sits there in his office with wet warmth stinging his closed eyes. His heart, whispering just three simple words that resonate in the recesses of his soul, recesses that he once believed would never feel again.

_He's coming home._

**ix. "Let it shine ..."**

New York city is at its most beautiful at night.

That's what Danny feels, and he doesn't give a shit what anyone says otherwise. His home city will always be the most breathtaking place in the world to him. He knows he's missed the Big Apple bad when the view is gorgeous to him even through a stained, cracked window.

He has no clue how long he's been sitting in the chair by the window of his motel room, staring outside with half-lidded eyes. Can't have been long. His left arm is still hurting from that drunk fucker's punch.

At least he can say in all honesty that the drunk looked twenty times worse than him when their brief bar brawl was over.

Danny Messer's still got it, in _spades_.

He unconsciously rubs at the developing contusion on his left forearm. _Shit_. That's what he gets for going to some seedy, cheap bar. He should have gone to Sullivan's. If the place has maintained its rep and its class, the people there are good folk.

But he can't go there. Not yet.

Not until he's absolutely sure he's prepared to meet Flack again.

He knows that cops still hang out at Sullivan's, particularly Flack and his fellow detectives. He had heard it straight from Adam's mouth during his phone call to the younger detective three days ago. A half day before he made the call, he'd just arrived in NYC from New Jersey at a little over nine in the morning, worn out to the point he could barely lift his head. First thing he did was head to the bank to withdraw much needed money from his bank account that he'd kept open as a safety measure. And _boy_, was he relieved that he did. He wouldn't have been able to pay the cost for the motel room he's staying in at the moment, had he not done so. He also had more than enough to buy himself a new phone card for his mobile phone.

If he's going to leave behind his past in Montana, he's going to leave behind _everything_.

He had called Adam because he felt Adam was the safest to talk to, out of everyone he knew in the city. The mild-mannered man never judged him, or expected anything from him. Adam always accepted him for him, and part of him is disappointed at himself for having never appreciated that.

He was damn glad that Adam hadn't changed his number. One ring, and Adam had picked up. True to form, Adam had been bowled over by his call. So bowled over, it took the poor guy a good minute or two just to articulate a thrilled, "_Hey!_" and "_How are you! _We thought you dropped off the face of the _earth!_ _Dude!_"He didn't blame Adam at all for the initial awkwardness; he hadn't contacted _anyone_ he knew from the labs for _seven years_.

They spoke for over two hours. Danny was happy for Adam's promotion to third grade detective. The guy's a hardworking, decent person, and it was about damn time that he got it. Adam had to cram in over half a dozen years' worth of history into that short period of time, so he was the one who did the majority of the talking. Danny was fine with that, though. His throat clogged up more than once throughout Adam's riveting recital of Mac and Stella's wedding, the craziness at the labs after Flack was involved in that diner shooting, and the ceremony where Flack had been awarded his NYPD Medal of Honor.

Adam pretty much summed up Danny's feelings with, "Man, you missed out on _a lot_."

Then the younger CSI added, "Everyone was wishing you were here, ya know?"

It was thoughtful of Adam to say that, but he knew better. Flack would have most likely kicked him out on his bare ass should he have had the nerve to show his face at the award ceremony. Or at Mac and Stella's wedding, even.

When Adam started to inquire about what had been going on with him, he couldn't help becoming tongue-tied. What was he supposed to say?

_Oh, ya know, I'm back in NYC now. Ditched everything in Montana because I fuckin' hated livin' there, and after seven years of bein' with Lindsay, I caught her sleepin' 'round with my former CSI partner behind my back and they took every cent I had with them. But that's okay. I was a stupid, cheatin' jerk towards Flack before I left New York, so it's just karma lettin' me know that I deserved it. _

_And yeah, I have no job because I don't know how to reapply for my CSI position without alertin' Mac or Stella or any of the others that I'm back in town. Well, I don't wanna talk to them 'cause I'm too ashamed to even see them in person, much less talk to them, see? And I'm stayin' in a cheap ass motel room, but I won't be able to do it for long since the money I kept in a back-up bank account here is runnin' out fast. Oh, and did I mention that I'm too chickenshit to even see my own brother and parents?_

His brain succeeded in hastily coming up with a fuzzy but positive-sounding explanation of his past, and Adam didn't distrust it or reveal any doubts about it as he said, "We gotta meet up, Danny!"

"I - I got some things to sort out first … but I promise we will _soon_, 'kay?"

"It's okay, Danny. You do what ya gotta do. Hey, I'm always here for ya," Adam had replied with such honesty and assurance. "We always have been."

It had taken Danny a very long time afterwards to regain his composure. He'd been in such denial over how much he missed his old life and his old friends and his family till his call to Adam. Adam's sharp, sharper than most people will ever know. Danny hadn't asked for Mac's number at all, but Adam had given it to him anyway. It was as if Adam knew how desperately he very much wanted to talk to Mac and Stella without him saying anything.

Adam had passed him Flack's number too. He didn't inform the other man that he already had it years ago, thanks to a detective from NYC whom he'd met by pure chance in Bozeman, some guy called McMillan. It was just soothing to hear the number he had confirmed a hundred percent to be Flack's.

Not that he hadn't already known that, due to him having called the homicide detective five times in the last week.

Danny blinks, and he returns to the present, having shifted from the chair to the bed with its flowery bedspread and blanket. He doesn't really remember moving, and he doesn't think much about it. His arm's hurting less now. The bed's comfy and soft and clean. A pleasing surprise for a motel that charges fifty bucks a night.

He strips off his jacket, toes off his boots onto the floor, and wriggles under the cozy blankets. It's not very cold for an early autumn night, which is nice. He's not too keen on freezing his toes and fingers off when the chill comes around in the coming weeks. Very soon, he's half asleep, his eyelids fluttering in drowsiness.

He's only half asleep, for he hears Flack's voice like a mantra in his thoughts.

In his first call from Billings, Montana to Flack, the man had uttered a mere five words. To Danny, who hadn't heard his former lover's voice in years, listening to Flack say them had been similar to drinking a single droplet of the elixir of life. It felt as if something great and breathtaking inside him had returned to life from the ashes of regret.

"_Flack."_

He hadn't intended to make the call to Flack. He really hadn't.

He just needed to know that the phone number he'd gotten was correct, that's all.

"_Hello? Who is this?"_

He had ached to say so many things, that he's such an idiot, that he's sorry, that he's so much wiser now, that he really never meant to hurt Flack so badly.

That he never stopped loving Flack, ever.

Then fear overwhelmed him and he had put down the phone. And all the words died in his mouth, having never left his lips.

In his sleepiness, Danny's brain is suddenly zooming back in time, to the evening in that bar back in Bozeman where he met Det. McMillan for the first time.

Long before his phone call from that bus terminal in Billings, he had actually attempted one call to Flack, just one. It was some time after he and Lindsay had received Stella's wedding invitations. He had been so elated for Mac and Stella, and was already planning ahead and choosing the suitable dates to request for time off. He never realized how much he missed his home city till he had those invitation cards in his hands, and saw Mac and Stella's blissful faces in the photographs printed on them. He had been so happy and excited and then, to his chagrin, Lindsay didn't want to attend the wedding.

It was even worse because she never gave him a reason. _Wouldn't_ give him a reason, even when he demanded for one during their quarrels about it.

It was insane. It was like their first rendezvous-that-never-was, replayed. He had been practically disgraced in front of a whole restaurant of people; they would have been _blind_ to not know he was stood up by his date.

She had never, _ever_ given him a reason for _that _either.

The spat ended with her ignoring him the whole evening, and him locking himself up in the study room, staring at his mobile phone and toying with it. Entertaining the very dangerous idea of calling Flack, after all this time.

His fingers moved with their own mind. The dial button was pushed down, and before he could stop himself, he was pressing the device to his ear, listening to the monotonous dial tone.

Something had splintered inside him when an automated message notified him that the number was no longer in service.

He had stormed out of their apartment after that. He was so outraged, at himself, at being reminded of how far away he was from everything and everyone he knew and cared about. How far apart he truly was from Flack, now that the one connection he had left with his former friend and lover was finally and truly severed. He dashed for the first passable bar he came across, wholly intent on getting drunk out of his mind.

And that was where he met Howard McMillan, a third grade detective all the way from New York city. A detective who was also a CSI, and used to work for a certain Mac Taylor till his boss retired over three years ago after getting injured in the line of duty.

Their meeting was something so random, it still causes Danny to wonder whether it had been nothing more than a dream. He was ordering his second shot of whisky when a deep voice with a thick and distinct New York accent floated to his ears. He'd spun his head around so fast there was an audible crack. A half dozen feet away from him stood a young, lanky guy with light brown curls requesting the bartender for a beer. The forceful, baritone voice belied the man's appearance, and Danny had to observe the guy talk to verify that, indeed, the voice belonged to the stranger.

In a flash, he was standing next to the man and introducing himself, extending his hand for a handshake. McMillan introduced himself as Howard, stating that he was in Bozeman for a very short holiday to see his sister, who'd moved from NYC to be with her husband. Within minutes, he and McMillan were sitting at a table, chatting like they were old friends. In a way, McMillan _was_ an old friend; the guy knew all of _his_ old friends. Worked with them, had meals together with them, drank with them at Sullivan's, just like he used to.

He didn't feel the sting he expected as McMillan talked about Hawkes. From the sound of it, Hawkes was still the good-natured, scholarly detective that he was, the sole difference being that he had recently been promoted to second grade level. _That_ had stung Danny a bit. After all these years and his accomplishments back in New York city and here in Bozeman, he was still a third grade detective, and Hawkes had started out much later than he did.

It was inexorable that their conversation would turn to the subject of Flack's valiant feat and his awarded NYPD Medal of Honor. According to McMillan, Flack was considered a hero, a _legend_, in NYC now, maybe even more so than his father. McMillan recounted the times that he was fortunate enough to work with Flack on various homicide cases, and it was obvious to Danny how much the other CSI admired Flack.

Luckily for Danny, McMillan was in awe of him just as much after he'd narrated his own stories of his friendship with Flack, as well as the cases they worked on.

Which led to the ideal opening for him to ask McMillan for Flack's current phone number, with the excuse that he had lost it due to damage to his previous phone.

The younger detective had given it to him without a second thought.

It had taken Danny three years to gather the courage to call Flack again.

And him finally leaving Lindsay and Montana and all the crap he suffered behind him was the first step on his journey to another life, a _better_ life. A life of freedom and _truth_.

A life, he prays, that will have Flack within it once more.

_If_ Flack ever takes him back.

The sheer horror inside him, at the thought that he may live the rest of his life alone and without Flack, is enough to alarm him into wakefulness. He turns onto his back on the bed, his torso and legs tangled up in the sheets. Swallows visibly, blinking eyes suddenly gone hot and moist.

"_You made your choice, and so have I, Danny. Whatever the hell there was between us … it's over."_

He knows he's really staring at the plain ceiling of his motel room, but all his mind sees is Flack's handsome features crumpled up, the man's large hands pushing him away.

"_We're over."_

Danny rolls over onto his belly, burying his face into the pillow. For some reason unknown to him, it's becoming damp.

How is it possible, for two words to still hurt so much, after so many years?

"Hey, now."

He raises his head, and sees Flack sitting at the side of the bed, gazing down at him with loving, blue eyes.

"You're stronger than ya think, Messer. It won't last forever, this pain," Flack says, his dark pink lips arched up in a tender smile.

Danny pushes himself upright and leans against the headboard. He isn't stupid. He knows Flack isn't really here. He knows he's just hallucinating that the gorgeous, extraordinary man is here with him, in this dump that isn't even worthy of someone like Flack.

He doesn't care.

A mirage of Flack is anything better than not having him at all.

"I dunno, Don ... I don't think I'm gonna make it this time," Danny rasps.

It's amazing how handsome Flack appears in his black, v-necked sweater and jeans, highlighted from the side by vibrant moonlight. How much adoration there is in those big, blue eyes, looking at him and making him feel like the luckiest man alive.

"Have you forgotten 'bout the Minhaus shootin'? Or that time when you were locked up in that dead billionaire's panic room? Or what happened to your brother Louie and the whole Tanglewood mess?"

Danny feels a very solid and warm hand caressing his cheek.

"You made it through all that, remember?"

Flack is still smiling at him with such love, and it breaks his heart all over again, knowing the reality of his situation, knowing the truth.

He closes his eyes, and lets his tears fall.

"I had _you_," he whispers into the empty air.

The anguish that shreds him once he opens his eyes and discovers himself to be alone is beyond unendurable. His brain shuts down. His visage scrunches into a rictus of sorrow. He scrambles over to the side of the bed and seizes his mobile phone, jabbing a series of numbers that he has memorized to heart. He slides down onto the floor against the bed even as he listens to the dialing noise of the call awaiting connection.

_Stupidstupidstupidstupidstupid -_

"Flack."

Danny is instantly paralyzed at the name. He tries to part his lips and say what he wants to say to Flack, except he can't. They won't come forth from his throat, and so, they remain ensnared within himself, dying into nothing like they do every time he does this.

"Hello? Is anyone there?"

He pulls his knees up to his chest and wraps an arm around his shins. Yanks at his hair with his free hand, bowing his head and knocking his forehead against his knees in an odd ritual of punishment.

_Tell him, you stupid fuck, tell him everything before it's too late -_

"Come back to me."

The whole universe holds its breath upon the whisper of those four words from the other end of the line.

Danny's chest is aching so much, he's half-suspecting that he's having some sort of heart attack.

Impossible.

It's _impossible _Flack knows it's him.

There's a prolonged silence, and then -

"Come back to me. _Please_."

With a harsh gasp, Danny hurls the phone away from him. It bounces a few times on the carpeted floor, then lands with the LCD screen facing down, undamaged. He crawls backwards into the corner between the bed and the bedside table and stares at his phone for many minutes. Watches the light of his phone's LCD screen dim.

A second later, there's a beep, indicating that the call has disconnected.

He's alone. Again.

A little while later, he's back in bed, curled up under the covers, gazing at his phone on the bedside table with wide, almost child-like eyes.

Did Flack really know it was him?

Is it possible … that Flack wants him back?

That Flack loves him still?

His brain tells him he'd be a fool to even _think_ for a moment that Flack still cares for him.

But his heart is saying something very different.

And for the first time in many, many years, he chooses to hope once more.

Unlike so many other nights, he ends up sleeping an undisturbed, peaceful slumber, dreaming of a Flack who walks up to him with open arms, smiling a smile that is his, and his only.


	3. Part 3

**Roses and Thorns**

Fandom: CSI:NY

Author: Kimmychu

Rating: FRT

Pairings: Flack/ Hawkes, Danny/Flack, Danny/Lindsay, Mac/Stella

Content Warning: Goes AU after episode 3x19. Oh, and the story has this thingy called angst.

Spoilers: Pretty much every major episode in the show, and since this is a sequel to my story, **RNA and DNA**, spoilers for that too.

Summary: He pauses for an instant, then chokes out the most excruciating words he'll ever say, "You made your choice, and so have I, Danny. Whatever the hell there was between us … _it's over_." A multiple-ship story including Flack/Hawkes, Danny/Flack, Danny/Lindsay and Mac/Stella.

Disclaimer: You see, the cast on the show are actually clones. The real people are right here in my closet! Why yes, my closet _is_ humongous!

**( Oooo …... oooO )**

Author's Notes: Whoa, I really didn't expect the final installment to be this long. My apologies for keeping anyone waiting for this final update, I've been _very_ busy. I mentioned posting a long commentary at the end of the story, but I think I'll just post it over at my **CSI:NY **LJ instead (It's linked in my profile page). Just go to the **Memories **section and look for **Fanfic: Roses and Thorns**. It'll have a great deal of information in relation to the story, including links and pictured and commentary on all the characters in the story. As always, thank you so much for reading the story. I appreciate your reviews!

**( Oooo …... oooO )**

**x. "Until you feel it all around you ..."**

Stella's green eyes are as big and beautiful as ever.

"So, I'd be in the lab, and you'd come in with a _hotdog_ in your mouth -"

Flack chuckles and playfully retorts, "_Hey_, nothin' wrong with that! Big boy like me, gotta eat a lot! And I _still _eat hotdogs from street vendors, ya know."

Stella widens her eyes in mock horror. "And you're still _alive!_"

Flack laughs again, and tightens his arm around her shoulders.

"C'mon, Stell, they're not so _bad_."

"Yeah, that's because you've never seen them under a _microscope_."

"That's _your_ field of expertise. I'm just the guy who goes 'round interviewin' people and collarin' perps while I'm at it."

"_Riiight_. Says the man who has his own office now and an NYPD Medal of Honor under his belt."

"Nah, I leave it at home in a drawer. What's under my belt, now that's _really_ one of a kind," Flack drawls, waggling his eyebrows.

Stella laughs so hard that she throws her head back in her merriment. Her tuneful laughter is contagious, and soon, he's snickering along with her, their faces crinkled by their smiles and their heads touching.

_This is really nice_, Flack thinks to himself as they sit together in front of his desk in his office at his precinct. _Just like the old times_.

He and Stella are seated in individual chairs that he placed side by side so they can converse without his desk between them. He enjoys being close to Stella anyway; she's like the older sister whom he never had, someone he can talk to, someone who will always be there when it is his turn to seek comfort in a great, loving heart.

"Just like old times, isn't it?" Stella murmurs after a while, as if she'd read his mind. "We'd be sitting like this in the break room at the labs, with Mac and Hawkes, and we would just … _talk_."

"Yeah."

Flack doesn't say anything more. The nostalgic smiles on his lips and Stella's are already speaking for them.

It _is_ stupefying and almost frightening how rapid time has passed. It only seems like yesterday that he was a mere third grade homicide detective, working together with a team of CSIs who would become his closest friends in the long run. To be honest, he'd been rather hesitant about working with CSIs at first; once his rookie years were through, he had hoped to move to the narcotics department instead. Command drug raids, apprehend drug dealers, wipe out drug rings, action like that.

Then, he met CSIs Mac Taylor and Stella Bonasera, and they helped to amend his preconception of crime scene investigators.

And then, he met another CSI called Danny Messer, and he never, ever thought about leaving homicide again.

"You remember that time when Mac choked on a piece of bak choi?"

Flack sniggers. "Yeah, I sure _do_. You performed a … whachacallit? A _Heimlich_ maneuver on him." His snickers grow louder. "That was awesome."

"The funniest bit to me was the look on Hawkes' face when the vegetable shot out of Mac's mouth and - _and_ -"

Stella can't even finish her sentence due to her laughter.

Upon recollecting what happened after that, Flack laughs so much that his side throbs. Oh _damn_, he remembers that occurrence like a high-definition DVD film. It had happened just months before Mac was shot in the chest. There they were in the break room, having Chinese take out for dinner after a long albeit satisfying day of arresting perps for their crimes. Their success must have gotten to Mac because the guy was chattering all evening about his past experiences in the Marines. Nobody complained, though. An open, loquacious Mac was akin to discovering the fountain of youth in the center of the North Pole. A freaking miracle to be savored all the way.

Mac was going on about how he and his Marine teammate Jon had literally caught some insurgents with their pants down during an invasion in Beirut. Half-way through his very avid narration, Mac started to make really weird, choking noises. Everyone assumed it was all part of Mac's storytelling of how the rebels were being strangulated during the attack, till Mac was smacking himself on the chest with very real franticness.

Stella was behind Mac in a split second, slapping his back in an attempt to help him cough out whatever was blocking his throat. When that didn't work, Stella quickly wrapped her arms around Mac's midriff with her hands held together under the man's diaphragm. One, two exerts of pressure and a large, green piece of mashed vegetable went shooting out of Mac's gaping mouth.

Straight at Hawkes' face.

The splatting sound once it hit Hawkes on the nose and cheek was what did Flack in. He wound up laughing so hard he couldn't move at all to retrieve tissue papers for Hawkes, and it didn't help that Stella was laughing too and Mac was trying not to cough his lungs out and laugh at the same time. Hawkes, in his natural good nature, simply peeled the vegetable off his face and burst into laughter along with everybody in the room.

It'd taken _forever_ for the hilarity to die down.

"See, that's what you get for talking with your mouth full," Stella had said with a smirk to a very red-faced Mac. She pinched one of his cheeks and then affectionately stroked the side of his face.

Flack pinpoints that precise moment as the moment Mac fell in love with Stella. He saw it in the way Mac's hazel eyes suddenly widened, and the way the man's mouth slackened in momentous epiphany.

Oh, the guy didn't wholly know it at the time, just like Hawkes had no clue he'd fallen in love with Angela, but Flack knew.

And so did Stella, over time.

"It's strange, you know," Stella murmurs some time later, clasping his hand and leaning her head against his cheek and the side of his jaw. "One minute, we were all sitting there, eating and laughing together, and the next … Mac's on a hospital bed with hundreds of tubes going in and out of his body, a giant hole in his chest."

Flack rubs her nearest forearm gently. He had been there at the hospital with her, while Mac underwent the emergency operation that lasted for hours and hours. Mac clinically died on the operating table _twice_, but the bastard was tough and made it through. Mac was out like a light most of the time thanks to all the painkillers and sedatives being pumped into his injured body.

It was Stella who'd suffered every moment of pain. Hers had been in the chest too, except it was a very different sort of pain.

"That's the thing about the job, isn't it? You don't think about getting wounded or dying, until it really happens to you, or someone whom you really care about," Stella continues in a quiet voice.

Flack pats her hand between his own. He understands where she's coming from, though in his case, he was the injured party. After the diner shooting, he'd been sped off to the hospital to get his gunshot wounds treated, drugged up to the eyeballs, blood splattered front and back all over his clothes. He had lost so much blood, he would have been done for had he arrived at the ER five minutes later than he did. And after all this time, he's yet to forget the way Hawkes' brown eyes were glistening in overt worry, or that Hawkes was at his bedside the whole day and night, having never once left him.

"The good news is, whatever doesn't kill us just makes us stronger," Flack says.

He senses Stella squeeze his hand once. Yes, she understands where he's coming from too. He, of all people, would know how it feels to have looked death in the eye and then survive to tell about it.

"And hey, everythin' turned out _good_ for you and Mac in the end," he adds. "You're _married_, you guys have a new _life_ together, Mac's doin' _great_ with his job, you have a _son_, and now … you've got _number two _comin' along soon."

"Yes." Stella touches her slightly rounded belly, a softhearted smile brightening her whole face. "I hope it's a girl this time."

"Boy for you and a girl for Mac, huh?"

Stella's broad smile is more than enough of an answer to his inquiry.

A contented silence fills the room for a few minutes. Flack stares at the intertwining of his fingers with Stella's, and thinks about the last time his hand had been held like this. It'd been by a different person with different physical traits, but the love within that person exists inside this magnificent woman holding his hand too.

_Love isn't blind_, Flack ruminates, _it's just real smart at knowing what to overlook and what not to_.

Under the bright afternoon sunlight, their entwined hands seem to glow.

"Donovan is absolutely adorable," Stella murmurs.

Flack's features breaks into a buoyant grin at the mention of Hawkes' newborn baby. His namesake is, indeed, one of the cutest babies he has ever laid eyes on, all roly-poly with big, brown eyes like his dad's and a sweet smile like his mother's.

"Yeah, chubbiest baby _ever_. I gotta ask Sheldon what the heck he fed Angela while she was pregnant."

That gets Stella chuckling in amusement.

"Wait till the baby's six months old, and _then _you'll know what chubby _really_ means."

"Yeah, well, I probably will. Angela's already booked me for babysittin' for the next _five_ _years_."

Stella gives him a light smack on the forearm and grins at him. "Hey! You're supposed to be _Alex's_ babysitter!"

Flack lets out a groan and slumps in his chair. "Ya know what? I think I'll just retire early and become a professional _au pair _- _aww_, stop laughin' at me, Stell, I'm _serious!_"

"Oh, Don, I can just imagine you walking around with a _baby carrier _and a whole bag of _diapers _and _milk bottles_," Stella replies between chuckles, wiping the corners of her eyes with a finger. "The _Nanny Cop!_"

"Hey, _hey_." Flack straightens up and gives Stella a mock haughty look, wrinkling his nose. "Obviously I'm _good_ at it, or I wouldn't be in such _high demand_, would I?"

His feigned snooty expression is shortlived and transforms into a jovial smile when Stella gives him an affectionate kiss on the cheek. Her unhindered warmth is just one of so many elements of Stella's character that he adores.

"You _are_ very good at caring for children," Stella says sincerely. "Alex turns into a hyperactive ball of joy just hearing your _name_, and I mean it when I say none of his other nannies can compare to you."

She squeezes his hand once more.

"You're good at caring, period. You have a lot of love within you, Don."

For the first time since Stella stepped into his office for a visit, he deliberately breaks eye contact and gazes at the crystal paperweight on his desk. The oval-shaped object had been given to him by Hawkes as a gift out of the blue, around the time their relationship was only beginning. He doesn't have to look at Stella to know what she's going to say next.

"I'm okay, Stella. Really," he says in a mellifluous tone to her implicit query.

He feels her stroking his knuckles, and he appreciates the platonic contact. It's been some time since anyone has touched him this way. Or touched him at all. That's what happens when he permits work to occupy his life.

_Don, you're just saying that to make yourself feel better about turning down all those dating offers. Not that you doing that is wrong, of course … but how long are you going to wait for him?_

He thinks it's pretty funny that his conscience sounds just like Hawkes these days.

And his silent answer to that question hasn't changed.

_As long as the sun rises and sets. _

_As long as it takes._

Flack's brain endeavors its best to come up with another subject of conversation, but Stella thwarts him with, "You were with him for _seven years_. That's a very long time."

"Yeah, I know." Flack glances at her, his blue eyes warm in acknowledgement of her concern for him. "But I'm _okay_. I really am."

He shifts in his seat and turns more towards Stella to face her and look her in the eye.

"I'm happy that he's found somebody who loves him. I know Angela really does, 'cause believe me, if she didn't, I woulda said my mind 'bout it to Sheldon first thing."

He pauses for a moment.

"He wanted a family, I know that. He wanted children … a chance to be a _father_. Who am I to destroy his dreams, if I claim to love him and wish only the best for him?"

"You know what really surprises me, Don?" Stella asks with a countenance that's an amalgam of mild bafflement and fondness. "I'm amazed _you're_ not already married yourself by now."

Flack shrugs. "Heh. Maybe I'm not meant to get married."

"Man like _you? _You're a _liar_ if you dare to tell me there aren't women lining up at your door waiting for you to sweep them off their feet."

One end of Flack's lips bows up in a small smirk. Ah, damnit, he can never hide anything from Stella.

"I ain't interested in becomin' some _trophy husband_. I've been nothin' more than a trophy to my _dad _for most a' my life, and it took me gettin' shot by some whackjob with an AK-47 and savin' two dozen kids to make people stop thinkin' of me as a mere extension of my father. _Last _thing I want is to be chained up to some woman who just wants to use me to boost her rep, if ya know what I'm sayin'."

"I know. I didn't mean to imply that. We both know that's not going to happen …" Stella lifts one eyebrow. "Unless your feelings have _changed_?"

"Things do change," Flack replies in a solemn tone. However, he locks gazes with her and reveals his true answer with his blue eyes.

She sends him a kind smile, her eyes glinting with understanding.

"Not everything, it seems."

Flack is suddenly struck by the need to turn his face away again.

"Call me dumb or whatever, but I've _tried_, Stell. I tried to forget him. _Yeah_, sure, I managed to let him go … eventually. But I never forgot him. I just can't." He huffs out a joyless guffaw. "Don't ask me why. I don't know either. Maybe I'm just _stupid_ where Danny is concerned."

Stella is quiet.

Flack doesn't take any offense at her silence. She'd already spent many a day and night trying to persuade him otherwise, throughout those long, taxing weeks while Mac was recuperating from his injuries and Stella needed respite every so often. He would come over to her apartment, and they would sit on her couch and he'd lend a sympathetic ear to her venting or talk her out of an irate mood when the moment called for it.

Somewhere along the way, the tables unexpectedly turned, and Flack became the one who poured his heart out about everything, about his life, about the loss and the disappointment and the hurt he'd kept inside himself for years. Stella didn't even _blink_ at learning of his past relationship with Danny. He'd wondered for a long time after that just how transparent he might have appeared about Danny after all, if Stella figured it out on her own.

And if _she _figured it out, who else did too?

More importantly, if other people had done so and no one gave them any trouble for it … why did things end so badly for them anyway?

Where did it all go wrong?

Flack ponders about the most recent mysterious phone call, one he received two weeks ago. After the one originating from New Jersey, he'd been on edge for days. The good kind of edge, the kind he gets when he's supervising a major arrest and he and his team are going to jump a perp and cuff him fast. He hadn't thought much about the anonymous number of the call; he has tons of people calling him everyday, and the number _was_ a New York number.

The muteness on the other end of the line had him leaping to his feet and prowling the floor of his living area at once. He didn't care that nothing was said like all the previous calls. What was of importance to him was that _he_ said what he wanted to say, what he wanted the other person to hear.

_Come back to me, Danny. _

_Please._

"Danny's back in New York," Stella says, cutting into his train of thought and reeling him back to the present.

Flack blinks hard and stares at Stella. Whoa. This mind reading power of hers is starting to get a _little _scary.

"What?"

"Danny's back in town. He gave Mac and I a call a week ago," Stella replies.

Flack keeps gazing at her, and hopes he's just imagining that the ground beneath him has fallen away.

"Yeah? What did he say?"

This is one of those times he's _very _glad to be a master of pokerfaces.

"Danny … actually, he didn't say very much about himself." Stella shrugs one shoulder, her refined brows furrowed in slight unease. "Mac picked up the call as I was putting Alex to bed, and he was _so_ quiet after he said hello that I thought something _awful_ had happened. You can imagine how shocked _I_ was when he told me it was Danny on the line."

"Mac did most of the talking while he was listening to the phone. You know, about him getting shot and retiring, a little about our wedding and about Alex. Then Mac passed the phone to me, and the first thing Danny told me was that he got our number from Adam."

"So Danny called him too?"

"Uh hmm. Seems Adam's the only one who never changed his number."

Flack bites his lower lip. Danny may have called Adam, Mac and Stella and spoken with them.

But Danny had called _him_ first. Five times in a row.

The immense magnitude of knowing that is causing his hands to tremble.

"So, yes," Stella resumes. "He's been back for almost a month. He traveled by _bus_, would you believe that? He said he wanted to _sightsee_." Stella chuckles softly. "He didn't specify exactly where he was staying. Just said that he was taking a break and giving himself time to work some things out."

She halts briefly.

"He apologized _so_ much for not attending the wedding that _I _felt bad. Believe me, I was never angry about that. _Disappointed_, yes, but never angry. I know that was what he assumed I felt because he sounded so _guilty_ about it. I kept telling him it's okay, but he didn't believe me, and in the end …" - she throws up her hands - "I had no idea what to say to him without making him feel worse."

She sighs in resignation.

"Finally, he told me that he didn't make it due to too much work, and that he was unable to take any more leave at the time. I don't know, it just … sounded like he was covering something up. He was all evasive too whenever I asked him what he'd been up to in Montana since he left New York. It was like trying to wrangle information out of a tight-lipped suspect."

Stella shakes her head.

"I don't know, Don. He just sounded … so _different_. Like I was talking to Danny, except … it wasn't really him."

Flack's tongue flits out and runs over very dry lips.

"Did he say anythin' else?"

"He asked whether we still hang out at Sullivan's. Including you."

It's taking all his energy to maintain a deadpan expression now.

"Yeah? What'd you tell him?"

"I told him that we did," Stella says, gazing pointedly at him. "That you and your detectives go there every night for drinks and pool."

Flack smirks at her. She's _almost _right about that. The major discrepancy is that _he_ doesn't go there every night. More like once every few days when he's in the mood for some socializing and a nice, tall glass of Guinness.

"Hey, I like Frankie and his establishment and all, but I don't go there _every_ night."

"Yes, but Danny doesn't need to know that, right?"

Flack swallows visibly.

_Geez, Stella, do ya think Mac's gonna kill me if I give ya a big kiss?_

"And since he called Mac and I a _week_ ago, and _specifically_ asked about you and Sullivan's … I think you know where to find him if you want to, _right?_"

"Yeah," Flack says in a gruff voice. "Figures the one week Messer chooses to go there is the one week I'm swamped with work."

He senses Stella taking his hand in hers.

"Hey. If you don't want to meet him, it's your choice. Nobody can blame you if you choose not to."

His lips curl up in a tiny, forlorn smile.

"S'that why ya decided to tell me 'bout Danny callin' after a _week?_"

"I'm sorry, Don," she answers, giving his hand an apologetic squeeze. "I - I didn't know how you'd react to finding out about Danny being back. After … you know."

"S'okay, Stell." He takes a deep breath. "I let go of the anger a long time ago. Life's too short for crap like that."

"I didn't say a thing about Hawkes. And he doesn't know about Hawkes getting married."

Flack glances at Stella with widened eyes.

"What? Wait, you mean Adam and Mac didn't say anythin' 'bout Sheldon either?"

"No, Mac didn't say anything. He got so caught up talking about Alex," Stella says, smiling widely. "And well, I gave Adam a call after Danny called us, and _yeah_, Adam didn't say anything about Hawkes either."

Stella puckers her lips.

"He _completely_ forgot to mention Hawkes' wedding to Danny. He had to return to his hometown for his grandfather's funeral instead, remember?"

Flack nods. He recalls Adam talking to Hawkes at the labs a couple of days before the wedding, to explicate his regret for his nonattendance. Everybody had a good laugh when Adam presented Hawkes with a multi-purpose blender for a gift. The irony is, Angela regards it as her favorite home appliance and it hasn't broken down even once.

"I thought about telling Danny, but - He didn't ask a _thing_ about Hawkes, so I didn't bring him up in our conversation."

Flack drums his fingers on his thigh. No, he isn't surprised at all about Danny shying away from any discussion of Hawkes. Now it's making much more sense why Danny doesn't say anything to him in those silent phone calls. What could the guy possibly say to a former lover whom he presumes to be still in a relationship with somebody else?

A somebody else who also used to be his mutual friend, no less.

"I notice you haven't mentioned anythin' 'bout Lindsay," Flack mutters after a few minutes.

The mere utterance of their ex-colleague's name immediately brings an ominous cloud of tension down upon them. A minute of charged silence lapses before Stella says, "Considering what happened between you and Danny, I thought it would be wise to not say anything."

Flack's snort seems to dispel whatever anxiety is in the air as rapidly as it arrived.

"Hell, if I'm gonna meet Danny, sooner or later I'll have to meet _her_ too, won't I? Sayin' her name would be the _least_ a' my problems."

"Interestingly enough, Danny never mentioned her. Not once. Not even when I asked about her."

Flack swivels his head to look at Stella. "_Oh?_"

"Yeah."

"So she's here with him too or what?"

Stella's green eyes are glittering in the sunlight.

"Don ... Danny came back _alone_."

Before he can stop himself, his right hand is rubbing the left side of his chest.

Can he be that fortunate? Can it be, that there's a second chance for them after all?

It seems too good to be true. And didn't somebody once say that when something is too good to be true, it usually is?

His right hand clenches into a loose fist.

His mind states: _You're a fool for even thinking about giving him another chance_. _Have you forgotten what he did to you?_

His heart says: _Giving him a second chance will mean accepting the risk of getting hurt a second time. But, it will also mean allowing yourself the chance to love and live again._

Flack shuts his eyes, and realizes he's already made his choice long ago.

"Don?"

"I'm alright, Stella." He opens his eyes and casts an earnest smile upon her. "Thanks for lettin' me know. I appreciate it."

She smiles in return, and it is all he requires for a reply.

His arm remains around her shoulders as he walks her to the door of his office. She has to depart now to be home in time to prepare dinner and such. His face crinkles in a contented smile while he listens to her bemoan how tricky it is to persuade Alex to eat his vegetables and discourage Mac from eating them on their son's behalf. He is happy for her, sincerely happy she's found the love that many, many people in this world can only dream of.

"Whatever you choose to do, Mac and I will always be here for you," Stella murmurs into his ear when they embrace in farewell.

"I know," he simply says.

He smiles to himself, and reminds himself how lucky he is to be the person he is today. How lucky he is to have done the things he has and to have such exceptional people like Stella Bonasera in his life. She is family, like Mac, Hawkes and Angela are also his family, for the strongest bonds are not those formed by blood or flesh, but those formed in the soul.

And tonight, he will be restoring one he had once believed to be forever lost to him.

Tonight, he will lead Danny home.

**xi. "And I don't mind ..."**

"_FLACK! _My _favorite_ customer!"

Flack's hand is up in the air in a wave of greeting at Frankie even before he's fully stepped into Sullivan's. It's busier tonight than usual, and he's mystified by the number of random strangers and acquaintances and friends coming up to him to say hello and chitchat a bit. It's so damn crowded he swears his butt was pinched at least _three times_.

Geez, who would have thought the people here missed him _this_ much?

_And I was only gone for a week_, he thinks, putting on a polite face when another woman he doesn't quite recognize approaches him and tries to make some small talk with him. Fortunately, he's had more than sufficient training to extricate himself out of these types of conversations quick, and it takes him a little over three minutes to struggle from the entrance to the bar counter where Frankie is.

A heavy sigh whooshes out of his mouth the moment he stands next to the cash register. Frankie, the insensitive jerk who just had to announce his arrival like he's royalty or something, laughs his head off at him.

"Hey, Flack! About _time_ ya came back! Yer fellow cops have been drinking away in the usual corner for hours now!" the bartender says, his teeth flashing under the warm orange lights. "I think they missed ya so much, they gotta come here and drink their sorrows away."

"You wish, Frankie. They see my ugly mug every day at work. Maybe they're drinkin' to _forget _it, huh?"

Frankie releases another roar of laughter that's quickly drowned by all the vivacious babbling and laughter and noises of people playing pool surrounding them.

"Oh _yeah_, Flack, _you're _gonna win the _Ugly _of the Year award, alright! And what's with that long, dramatic sigh, eh? You just got hit on by _four_ different chicks in, what? _Five_ _minutes? _That's better than some guys get in a whole _year!_"

Flack makes a face at the pepper grey-haired man.

"Not all guys like bein' _pawed_ like fresh meat, ya know. _I_ happen to be one a' them," Flack replies with a smirk. "Didn't I tell ya not to scream my name like that every time I come 'round?"

"But, Flack, you're my _favorite_ customer of _all time! _Of _course_ I gotta scream yer name!"

Flack laughs, peers from beneath his eyelids and drawls, "Frankie, if ya _really_ wanna profess yer love for me, all ya gotta do is gimme a free Guinness keg every day and I'm _all _yours, _darlin'_."

"A _free_ Guinness keg _every day?!_" The bartender's hazel eyes widen in a comical fashion. "Are ya _kidding_ me?! Even _you're _not worth that!"

Flack laughs louder this time, slapping the smooth surface of the bar counter with his hand. Yep, Frankie's a true blue pub owner, alright.

He smacks a hand over his heart, lower lip out in a pout.

"You hurt my feelings, man. I thought I was yer _favorite_ customer!"

Frankie grins at him while he fills out an order of three glasses of Bloody Marys. "You _are_, s'long as ya _pay_ me. Ka-ching, ka-ching, _kapish?_"

"_Yeah_, yeah." Flack leans forward with his forearms on the counter, smiling to himself as he mutters, "Ya just sweet talk me to get my money. Ya don't love me at all."

"_Aw_, shit, you figured me out!"

The exaggerated expression of terror on the bartender's face incites more sniggering out of him. He always feels at ease and welcomed here at Sullivan's, and Frankie's a respectable, candid guy who takes good care of his business and his customers. Sure, the man's hair is all grey and white, but a close inspection of his face and body and one would think he's only in his late thirties instead of the late fifties.

Flack observes Frankie handing the Bloody Marys to one of the waitresses. Then, he hones his gaze on the variety of wine and liquor bottles stacked up on the shelves behind the counter. Unlike other nights where he'd check out the crowd, he simply stares ahead to evade eye contact with the other patrons.

If Danny's here tonight, he wants to give Danny the chance to come up to him on the man's own chosen time.

Coercion is _not_ part of the process. Ever.

"So, ya want the usual tonight, or something different?"

Frankie's standing before him, wiping his hands on a dark green towel.

"Gimme my usual, Frankie."

"One Guinness, coming up!"

Flack glances downwards at the reflective surface of the counter, and sees himself staring back. He recently had his hair trimmed and it appears neat and lustrous even in the indistinct reflection. He had changed clothes after returning to his apartment from the precinct earlier in the evening, from his typical suit to the more casual jacket, black t-shirt and jeans combo. The jacket's the same one he had worn on the day of the AK-47 shooting at the diner, and there's a small patch over the bullet hole that went through the right shoulder of the jacket. Most people would have chucked it in the bin, what with all the blood that soaked it till he washed it clean, but he didn't have the heart to do that.

It's also the same jacket he'd worn in his initial years of being a homicide detective. The sentimental value in it is just too much to part with.

And most of all, it was once an item of clothing that drove a certain man wild every time.

"_Damn you, Don, you know what it does to me."_

"_What? This leather jacket?"_

"_Yes, you sadistic bastard. It's fuckin' unfair. You're usin' it to distract me!"_

"_Nah, I'm just better at pool than you are, Danno."_

"_Oh yeah? You wanna say that again after I strip?"_

"_You strip … and I'll fuck you with my jacket on."_

"_Oh, yeah. I'm gonna hold you to that, Don, and you better give it to me good when I win!"_

A smack to his shoulder abruptly snaps him out of his crystal-clear reverie.

"Hey, Flack, _hello? _Are you _there?_"

Flack scrunches his blue eyes shut for a second. Oh, _shit_. He hasn't daydreamed about Danny like that in a _long_ time. He pushes himself off the counter and gives Frankie a contrite smile.

"Sorry, was just thinkin'."

Frankie snickers.

"Well, whatever the heck you were thinking, it must have been something _real _nice, eh?" The bartender passes him his glass of frothy, coal-black Guinness. "Here ya go."

"Thanks."

A pleased hum escapes his pursed lips when he tastes his beer. It's particularly flavorsome tonight, creamy and sweet, like cold coffee with lots of cream and sugar, with subtle hints of dark chocolate. _Mmm_, just the way he likes it.

"Hey, Flack."

He's surprised to see Frankie hasn't budged. Extra hectic night like this, the guy should be flying here and there like Super Bartender Man or something.

"What is it?"

His eyebrows shoot up at Frankie subtly gesturing for him to bend forward some more over the counter.

"There's some guy who's been looking for you," Frankie whispers into his ear.

It's insane that his heartbeat is suddenly more deafening than every other sound in the bar.

"That so?" he replies in a nonchalant tone.

"Yeah, he came in about a week ago. Walked straight up to me and asked me if you were gonna come in that night. Didn't know who he was, so I told him that I had no idea, and he just sat himself down with a whisky and stuck 'round until closing time."

Frankie draws even closer to him.

"Thing is, he's been doing this the _whole week_. Every evening, right on the dot, he comes in, orders a shot of whisky and stays the whole night. Keeps to himself too. Doesn't say a word to anybody else, not even when women come up to him and try to chat him up. That kinda got the alarm bells ringing, ya know? Thought maybe he's got some beef with you and didn't want to attract attention."

Flack's brows lower in a contemplative frown. The whisky bit sounds about right, unless Danny's switched alcohol preference at some point. The reclusive bit, however, that doesn't really sound like the Danny he'd known. And _beef? _

Heh, if Frankie only knew just how much history he has with Danny.

"I dunno, buddy, but he looked … _familiar_." Frankie gives him an inquisitive look. "I remember you used to hang out with this guy many years ago. Little shorter than you, brown hair, blue eyes. _Glasses?_ Think he was your _co-worker _or something? Yeah, the guy kinda looks like _him_."

"Is he here tonight?"

Frankie nods.

"Yep, he sure is. Sitting at the same table like he has for the past seven nights. Only difference tonight is that he brought a duffel bag with him." The bartender's features shift into a troubled countenance. "I tell ya, I was half-tempted to ask him to open his bag up and show me what he had in there, if ya get my drift."

"If he's who I believe he is, he's no danger, trust me," Flack says in confidence.

"Okay, you're the man. I trust ya. Ya want me to point him out?"

"Please do."

Frankie leans back into an upright standing position, then slyly angles his head to the right, using the movement of his eyes to direct Flack towards the farthest corner of the bar on Flack's left. Flack, playing along with the game, picks up his glass of Guinness and scrutinizes that area of the place from the corners of his eyes while he sips his drink.

His six-foot-two height is a bonus to him tonight. He easily looks over the heads of many of the other customers, and has an ideal view of those sitting down. The first table he sets eyes on is occupied by a middle-aged couple who are on a romantic date, if their hand holding and smiles are anything to go by. The next table to it is in use by a group of young women who are, quite literally, the source of half the din in the entire bar.

It is the person sitting at following table after that one that causes some invisible band to constrict excruciatingly around his chest.

Flack has to blink numerous times to identify Danny out of the multitude of people. Like Frankie described, Danny is sitting alone at a table, nursing a shot of whisky. His shoulders are hunched, his head bowed, and it's hard to distinguish the expression on his face. What is most eye-catching to Flack is Danny's hair, or to be more precise, the lack of it. The man's shaven it extra short, just like he once did in the past when they still worked together.

Flack's gaze darts back to the table of young ladies, and he notices a few of them glancing at Danny once in a while, though Danny doesn't react to any of the looks. Danny doesn't appear to give a crap at all about anything outside the vicinity of his table.

The longer he stares at Danny, the tighter the pressure becomes around his lungs.

It's mind-boggling, that after all these years, he's here again. In the same place, the same spot. Staring at Danny the same way he did when he laid eyes on the attractive, passionate man for the very first time.

Even the sudden clogging up of his throat and the weakness in his knees is true to that first time.

"So … is he friend or foe?"

Flack inhales as deep as he can, then answers in a low voice, "Neither."

Frankie doesn't bat an eyelid. "But he's not _trouble _or anything?"

"No. He's … okay."

_My God, he really is okay. Danny's okay._

"Don't worry. As long as I'm standing here, he can't really see you."

Flack looks sharply at the bartender.

"Where you're standing right now is a blind spot for that particular table," Frankie explains, smirking away. "He can see _me_, but he can't see _you_ because I'm blocking the way, and so's part of this wine shelf."

Flack studies Frankie's face, and realizes that the man has been deliberately standing where he's been behind the bar counter, just so Flack would end up standing where _he's_ standing at the moment.

"Hey, s'not like I'm gonna let some _stranger_ have the upper hand over ya," Frankie says, his smirk softening into a smile. "I mean, I had no idea what he wanted with ya. If he was gonna try something funny in _my_ bar, you can bet your ass I'll be the first to jump in front of ya in your defense."

The genuine loyalty in Frankie's declaration is a pleasant disclosure that relieves him of the stress building up inside him.

"And you say you only want my ka-ching, ka-ching."

"Oh, I _do_, but see, ya gotta be _alive_ to give me your ka-ching, ka-ching, am I right?"

Shaking his head in amusement, Flack can only smile in mild chagrin and admiration of Frankie's straightforwardness. Sometimes he just can't figure out if Frankie's actually joking or not, and that's saying something since it's his aptitude to single out the perps from the innocent. Perhaps that's why he finds the older man such an intriguing guy.

"Think I'll put you outta yer misery and go see what he wants with me, how 'bout that?" Flack says in response, lifting his beer in a mock salute.

"You're my hero, Flack."

He chuckles at the bartender's falsetto voice as he saunters away towards Danny's table. One day, he'll thank Frankie for unwittingly helping him to confront one of the terrifying moments of his life.

For now, he just prays he won't upchuck the contents of his stomach all over the floor and make a total embarrassment of himself.

He's gripping the glass of his Guinness with more strength than he should. He has to command himself to breathe, to walk slowly, to keep his wobbly legs moving right, to smile when people he passes say hi to him, to go forward when what he really wants is turn around and head straight for the door.

_This is too much_, his mind blabbers in a panic, _this is too much, too fast, you don't know what to say yet, you don't know how Danny's going to react to you, you don't know what Danny wants wi-_

"Don?"

The chaos within his mind vanishes in a flash at the sound of Danny's husky voice.

He's standing beside Danny's table, and there's merely two feet of space separating them. Danny's staring up at him with such large, blue eyes, and it's minutes before it dawns on Flack that Danny isn't wearing any spectacles. And if Danny isn't wearing any contact lenses, there's the likelihood that Danny _really_ doesn't recognize him.

"Hey, Danny."

He hopes to God his voice isn't as croaky as he thinks it is.

Danny jolts in his seat, as if he was electrocuted.

"_Don_."

It seems whispering his name is all Danny is capable of at the moment. Flack doesn't fault the other man one bit for that. His insides are shuddering in rare nervousness, and he's uncertain whether the next thing to roll off his tongue will be a word or a sob.

To Flack's senses, everything and everyone around them is decelerating to a standstill. All sounds trail off into a loaded silence. A serene duskiness descends over the entire bar, except this small space of a table and two chairs, this place where he and Danny are gazing into each other's wide eyes.

There's no light anywhere except the one shining upon them.

There's nobody in the world except them.

They are unmoving, frozen in time by the enormity of seeing each other in the flesh once more. The sheer realization, that there is only two feet of distance between them now, rather than thousands of miles.

A gap of two feet, that Flack crosses with the extending of his right hand.

"How ya doin'? It's been a while."

His hand is quivering. It doesn't matter though, in view of the fact that Danny is still staring up at him, motionless as a statue.

"Don … I -"

He gulps when Danny doesn't say or do anything else.

Maybe he's just seeing things, maybe he's just hallucinating the unadulterated elation in Danny's eyes, maybe he's just imagining how they're glistening beneath the light hanging from the ceiling above them. Maybe he's just fooling himself into believing that Danny's truly happy to see him.

Yeah, maybe he's just being a _dumbass_ again. Maybe Danny's just happy because he's already married or something and Stella's wrong and any minute now, _she's_ going to show up, and then he's going to learn firsthand what it means to be in _hell_ -

Danny's clutching his right hand in a vice-like grip, and he doesn't utter a single squeak of protest.

He's holding onto Danny's hand equally hard.

"Yeah … _yeah_, it's been a _long_ time," Danny says in a rush, a wide smile spreading across that gorgeous face of his. "It's _good_ to see you again. It really is."

Danny's hand is warm and solid and somewhat more bony than he remembers. He glances downwards at their entwined hands, and the one thought that comes to mind is how _right_ it looks and feels.

Connection.

The first step in guiding Danny home.

"It's good to see you too, Danny," he murmurs, and he means it with every fiber of his being.

In the usual social circumstance, this is where Flack will let go of the other person's hand after shaking it a few times.

But this isn't any usual situation.

And Danny is no ordinary person, never to him.

He doesn't give a shit whether anyone is watching them or not. He's waited seven whole years to be with the man he's never stopped loving, and narrow-minded idiots be _damned_ should they think it's queer of him to hold Danny's hand this long.

Danny isn't letting go either.

Flack's heart feels like it's dancing the Macarena in his chest.

"Did ya just come in?" Danny asks tentatively.

Flack blinks. Huh, Danny must have missed Frankie's yelled greeting earlier on. _Phew_.

"Yeah, just a while ago." He raises the glass of Guinness in his left hand for Danny to see. "Was orderin' my drink."

The amused smirk on Danny's lips is making his heart beat in stranger rhythms now.

"Still a Guinness freak, huh?"

Flack nods at the glass in front of Danny on the table. "Still a whisky freak, huh?"

Danny cackles, and that familiar, heart-stopping laugh he loves so much is doing funny things to his eyes too.

All of a sudden, Danny's hand feels like a smoldering iron brand. He relaxes his fingers, and senses extreme reluctance in the slowness of Danny releasing his hand, in the way Danny's hand lingers in the air for a couple of seconds before it's pulled away and left curled in a loose fist on the table. He places his own right hand flat on the table top, letting the chill from it seep into his skin.

Danny's gazing downwards at his glass of whisky now, and somehow, Flack is sure that Danny is reading way too much in his breaking their handhold.

And of all things, knowing thatis what calms him down and clears his mind.

_That's Danny, always making a mountain outta a molehill._

_That's my Danny._

It's a good thing they're no longer grasping each other's hands anyway. He doesn't know what he would have done had they touched one another a second longer. They could get away with a really, really long handshake, but a really, _really_ long _hug? _

He takes Danny into his arms right now, and he'll never let go.

"So, ya waitin' for somebody, Messer?" he asks, smiling sideways.

Danny's looking up at him again, and the doubt and apprehension he sees in those blue eyes are dissipating fast. Thank God for his snarkiness and his discipline of his outward expressions.

Danny gazes at him for a minute, like the guy's assessing him.

"I was."

He has to hand it to Danny. He definitely got fooled into thinking Danny was really waiting for somebody else until Danny dropped the deadpan face and smiled at him, his features all crinkled with mirth. And then, he gets it.

_Geez, Danny_, he thinks to himself, _way to make my eyes burn by letting me know you've been waiting for me. All this time._

Flack sets his beer on the table and drags a chair over and sits on it. Yep, he's sitting close to Danny because it's very packed tonight, that's all. Anybody who says otherwise to him can shove it.

"I hear ya got awarded the NYPD Medal of Honor," Danny says, looking intently at his face, lips curled up at the ends in a tiny smile. "Congratulations. You deserved it, specially for what ya did, savin' those kids."

"Thanks, Danny." Flack makes a self-effacing face and shrugs his shoulders. "S'no big deal, really. Any other cop in my place woulda done the same thing I did."

"What, tackle a wacko with an AK-47 _alone? _And rescue _twenty-six _children at the same time? I don't think just _any_ cop would do that."

"_You_ would."

Danny's gaze flits away. "Ya so sure a' that, huh?"

"Yes. I am."

Danny sends him a piercing look, then glances away a second time, face flushed like the guy's really self-conscious. It's something that prompts Flack to grin inwardly like a loon.

_That's my Danny, never knowing how to accept a sincere compliment without getting all bashful about it_.

"If it had been _you_," Flack says, permitting his grin to show on his features, "I think you'd have just strolled right up to the perp, _punched_ him in the face and ended the whole situation in five seconds _flat_."

His ploy to make Danny laugh and make eye contact again works like a charm.

"I'm not _Superman_, ya know."

"Minor detail."

Up close at last, he grabs the opportunity to examine the other man from head to toe, and stares unashamedly.

Danny's thinner, much thinner than Flack remembers. He can tell Danny has lost some muscle mass, even though Danny's wearing a round-neck sweater and a leather jacket he identifies to be the same one Danny had regularly worn during their years of working together. What a twist of fate it is that they're both wearing jackets from their past tonight, that he's wearing the one Danny's always been crazy about, that Danny's wearing the one _he's_ always been crazy about.

The stark crew cut is showing off that rounded head, but it's also throwing Danny's facial features into noticeable prominence. The striking face is leaner, the cheekbones sharper, that jaw line and Italian nose more defined than before. After all this time, Danny's continued to maintain the light moustache and trimmed goatee style. It flatters the guy very much, and Flack is delighted that Danny has kept the look.

There are dark circles around Danny's eyes, which Flack attributes to lack of sleep or stress or both. He remembers Danny looking worn out like this whenever the man had to work on a nasty case that crawled under his skin bad. The gauntness is probably what's making Danny's blue eyes appear so big as well. Without glasses, they seem humongous on Danny's visage, glossy and mesmerizing.

They're staring back at him, without any reserve, and something burgeons within him at the openness of Danny's stare, something that tells him this man sitting beside him isn't the Danny who left this city without a word. The one who became engulfed with the trepidation of losing acceptance and approval, the one who eventually allowed fear to govern his choices.

This is the Danny who confronted an armed killer by himself and wasn't cowed one bit. This is the Danny who kept his head up high even when he was being accused of murder, when his brother was harmed. This is the Danny who gave the third finger to the world that attempted to change him into a different person.

This is the Danny he fell in love with.

"So what have you been up to all this time, Danny?" he asks as he taps on the side of his beer glass with a forefinger. "I bet you must have lotsa stories to tell."

_Tell me why you never called me to say goodbye._

_Tell me why you never returned for Mac and Stella's wedding._

_Tell me why it took you seven years to come back to New York._

_To me._

A minute of silence passes.

Once it's evident that Danny has no intentions of speaking about himself and won't do it without some major prodding, Flack utters the most brusque question that comes to mind.

"Are the wheatfields of Montana more beautiful than the New York skyline?"

Flack watches all the verve bleed from Danny's mien. The transformation from a happy expression to a blank, stony countenance is so rapid that Flack is startled by it.

"Nah. S'was like I expected it to be ... Wheat and cows everywhere. Wasn't my kinda place," Danny mutters in a monotone voice.

Flack brings his Guinness to his mouth and takes a long sip. He peers over the edge of the glass, first at Danny's unreadable face, then at Danny's hands on the table top. They're in fists so tight, the knuckles have gone white. The last time he'd seen Danny's hands like that, it was on the night the man's older brother Louie had been admitted into the hospital. Danny had showed up on his doorstep, eyes bloodshot and swollen, face all wet and hands clenched into painful fists. That night, he became one flower vase, three plates and a coffee mug less.

Danny isn't just mad, he's _pissed off_.

What the hell happened in Montana?

Flack clears his throat, then says in a casual manner, "Stella told me ya gave her and Mac a call 'bout a week ago."

Okay, Stella and Mac will make for an effective diversion topic. If Danny doesn't want to talk about Montana now, they'll talk about it later, when they're on Flack's own turf. He can't afford to risk Danny fleeing on him now, and he won't be able to stop Danny from doing that here in a public bar. Now without causing a scene, anyway.

Danny blinks a few times. He appears as if he's slowly awakening from a bad dream, brows lowering in a bewildered scowl, eyes bleary, his lips pursed into a thin line.

"Stella?"

"Yeah, Stella came to see me at my office today. Told me you called her up, and Adam too."

There's something about the way Danny is responding with such sluggishness and is slightly swaying in his seat that's bothering Flack. Danny's barely finished half his shot of whisky. There's no way Danny's drunk from that, unless he already consumed a whole lot more before this glass. Even then, he knows Danny's tolerance of alcohol. It'd take at least a dozen pints of beer and more shots of liquor before the guy reached the _whee-the-whole-freaking-world-is-spinning-and-I'm-gonna-puke _stage.

He recalls Danny behaving similar to this when the guy's exhausted and pushing himself far beyond his stamina and is ten seconds away from keeling over. And his touch helped Danny to focus every time.

He wraps his hand around Danny's closest wrist, instinctively squeezing his fingers the instant their skin touched.

"Dan?"

Danny's warm. _Really_ warm.

"Hn? Yeah … yeah, I called Adam. Few days after I arrived," Danny mumbles. "He didn't change his number all this time."

Flack sustains his grip around Danny's wrist. His euphoria at finally seeing and talking with Danny in person again is gradually being replaced by worry.

Damnit. Danny's not just flushed from emotion, but a _fever_.

"Well, I had to change my number after that diner shootin'," Flack replies. "Some press idiot leaked it out, and my voice mailbox got filled overnight with _hundreds _of messages from, I dunno, _fan girls _or somethin'. My phone never stopped ringin' either till I changed numbers. It was nuts."

Danny releases an odd chuckle. "Who can blame 'em, huh? Handsome, world-class guy like you."

Flack nibbles on his lower lip, watching the other man with concerned eyes. If Danny's truly ill, this is _not_ an appropriate time to be questioning Danny about making those anonymous phone calls. The thing is, he _knows_ Danny. Healthy and in the right mind, the guy will _never_ confess to doing something like that.

It has to be now.

"I got some weird phone calls 'bout a month ago. Heh, thought somebody had leaked my number out again, ya know?"

Danny's staring hard at him, lips slightly parted.

"'Course, the wonderful thing 'bout technology these days is," Flack continues, returning Danny's stare with his own intense one, "I can find out _'xactly _where any call to my number comes from. _You_ oughta know that, Danny, you bein' the CSI and all."

The muscles of Danny's wrist are flexing in his grasp.

"Stella said ya returned by bus. Did ya happen to pass _North Dakota _and _Minnesota_ along the way? Maybe _Illinois_ and _New Jersey _too?"

Danny's lower lip is trembling now.

"You may have called Adam and Mac and Stella, and talked to them, but …" Flack falls quiet for an instant, then murmurs, "You called _me_ first, didn't you?"

He watches the Adam's apple in the center of Danny's long neck bob as Danny swallows. The tension stiffening Danny's whole body is so tangible that Flack can see it the rigidity of the guy's broad shoulders, feel it in the tautness of the wrist still clutched in his hand.

He senses more than sees Danny tugging at his hand, and his own body tenses up in readiness.

_Damnit, damnit, damnit, no, Danny -_

"I wanted to come back home."

Danny's whispered answer resonates within him with the power of a supernova.

With his eyes blurry and hot, it doesn't take much for him to imagine that they're not in Sullivan's, that they're back in a time before a dream was buried, before everything ended with a fight in the locker room. That they're standing in front of CSI headquarters, while everyone else is partying away up in the labs. Standing there in their suits, mere inches apart, gazing into each other's eyes like they are now.

And Danny's whispering into his lips, the whiff of cigarette smoke tinting the man's breath.

_You're New York city, Don._

_You're my heart._

_You're my home._

Flack has to strive past a blocked throat to rasp, "You always did love New York with all your heart."

He isn't holding Danny's wrist anymore.

Instead, he's holding Danny's hand and Danny is holding his hand, just like they did as Danny whispered those fulfilling words into his mouth, his soul.

Danny isn't running away at all.

Flack is pinned to the spot by the other man's blue eyes, by the emotion in them that he's only seen in his treasured memories for so many years.

"I still do," Danny replies in a very resolved tone, and Flack hears the unspoken avowal in those three words.

_I still love New York._

_I still love you._

Flack's hand tightens violently around Danny's.

Oh God. _Oh God_.

Against the odds of seven entire years and over two thousand miles of total separation … their love for each other has never died.

It's not too late.

"I -"

Out of nowhere, somebody accidentally bumps into his chair.

The shock of the impact nudges Flack's senses into a very heightened awareness of his environment. He sucks in a quick breath. All at once, it's too noisy and the bar is teeming with too many people, and he feels like he's a sardine confined in a tin can. He has to move Danny and himself somewhere else that's more quiet and private.

Time to get out of here.

Time for the next step.

"Come on," he says, after coughing to clear his throat. "Let's go back to my apartment. It's gettin' too crowded here for my likin'."

Danny stares at him with a blank countenance, then rotates his head from side to side as if to inspect their surroundings. Danny's appearing dazed again, eyelids fluttering like he wants to sleep but is forcing himself to not do so. Seeing Danny this way is ample motivation for Flack to gulp down the remainder of his Guinness and stand up, pulling gently at Danny's forearm to attract the man's attention.

"C'mon, I got more whisky at my place, if ya still wanna drink. We can talk more there."

"But …"

Danny's looking down at an object on the floor next to him. Flack peers over Danny's thighs, and sees a large, yellow-and-black duffel bag. It has to be the bag Frankie glimpsed Danny carrying into Sullivan's with him. It's much too big for a regular night out. More like a piece of luggage a person would use for extended travelling. And moreover, Danny's the _I-just-need-my-wallet-to-hit-the-bar _type of guy.

Something clicks in Flack's brain.

If Danny has a place to stay, he wouldn't be lugging a hefty duffel bag like that around the city with him. Which means …

"Look, it's gettin' late, and my apartment's close by. So let's go back to my place, okay?" Flack says firmly.

"Don, I don't think that's -"

"_Danny_. We haven't seen each other for _seven years_. We've barely talked 'bout anythin' yet. And don't worry 'bout missin' the last train out or crap like that. I have a guest room that's never used, so it's 'bout time it actually lives up to its name of _bein'_ a guest room, okay?"

He stares into Danny's eyes, letting his own reveal the determination he feels in his heart. The other man would have to be _blind _to not see that he won't brook any refusal of his offer.

His stomach clenches in apprehension when Danny dips his head, concealing his face from view.

_C'mon, Danny. You can beat it, you can beat the fear._

_Like you always have._

"Okay," Danny mumbles. "Noise's gettin' to me anyway."

Then Danny raises his head, and gifts him with a soft smile that makes him grin from ear to ear.

"That's my boy," Flack says, already rummaging around in his jeans' side pocket for his car keys. He quietly watches Danny finish his whisky, then adds, "My car's parked right in front. I'll drive us home."

Danny's blue eyes are enormous with what seems to be jubilant disbelief.

"Okay."

Flack waits for Danny to pick up his bag and saunter ahead of him towards the main doorway of the bar. It's bizarre and fantastic and breath-stealing all at the same time, to be so physically close to Danny once more. To walk behind the man, to smell Danny's natural scent with a mere inhalation, to feel Danny's warmth against him, to _know_ that Danny's _right here with him_.

Just like it used to be.

Just like it's always meant to be.

He feels like he's floating a couple of feet in the air. He feels bigger and greater than the whole fucking universe, and maybe he really _will _fly high into the sky should someone pin a red cape on his back. He waves goodbye at Frankie who grins at him and shouts in that falsetto voice, "Goodbye, my hero! I love ya!"

He laughs together with the other patrons of Sullivan's, his pearly teeth flashing in more than just amusement. Danny's cackling too, glancing back at him with those big, blue eyes and that mischievous smirk of his.

God, Danny's smile is as spectacular as he remembers it.

And as he drives them back to his apartment building, he thinks it's an absolute marvel too, that falling in love with Danny Messer all over again is as glorious as the first time.

**xii. "If it's me you need to turn to ..."**

The foremost thing Flack does once they've entered his penthouse apartment is to haul Danny's duffel bag off the man's shoulder and bring it to the guest bedroom. He pays little heed to Danny's remonstrations, shushing them with a forthright, "Mi casa es su casa."

He drops it on the floor beside the queen-sized, made up bed, and alone in the room, he allows himself only the shortest span of time to concede to the restlessness within himself. He squeezes his eyes shut.

This is beyond his wildest imagination.

Danny's _here_, after all these years.

In _his apartment_.

Here to _stay_.

He runs his hands down his face, and mutters to himself over and over to not fuck things up. He can't afford to mess up.

He's not sure if he can survive losing Danny a second time.

_It's going to be fine_, a voice within himself reassures, _just follow your heart, and your feet will know where to go_. _Like they always have_.

After a while, after he's calmed down, he walks out of the guest room wearing a poker face mastered with decades of practice. He's going to remain strong. For both Danny and himself, till they're on stable ground and they've no longer struggling in the waters of doubt and disquiet.

He has all the time in the world now, to row them to the safety of the shores.

On his way to the living area, he goes into the main bathroom of the apartment, to a white medicine cabinet next to the sink. He opens it up and rummages through the various bottles and plastic containers in it.

Aspirin. He has to find some aspirin for Danny's fever.

"C'mon … I know you're in here somewhere," Flack mutters to himself.

He come across a white-and-aqua colored box of Bayer aspirin that's stuck between an unopened box of tissue papers and the side wall of the cabinet. Checks inside, and sees that only three tablets have been taken since he bought it. There's more than enough for Danny.

Stuffing the aspirin into a side pocket of his leather jacket, he closes the medicine cabinet and strides out. He's already mentally readying himself for the fuss Danny's going to put up when he makes the guy take some of the white pills.

_Heh_, he thinks with a muted chuckle, _nothing's changed at all_.

Of course, he's well aware of the sarcasm in that notion.

"Danny?"

Flack ambles into the living room. Danny's shuffling around the way a timid child would, looking here and there as if he's in a regal palace and he's afraid of touching anything in case he breaks something valuable. For a second, there's a fleeting manifestation of the old Danny he knew so well when Danny encounters a stone statue placed near his plasma television. It's a miniature version of one of them big-headed sculptures on Easter Island, something he purchased on a whim at the Annex Antique Fair and Flea Market five years ago. He watches Danny smirk at it and poke it with a forefinger. Then, Danny yanks back his hand like he just did something he shouldn't have, and withdraws into himself again.

This behavior is so disparate from that of the Danny with whom he was so familiar. It's a solemn reminder to him of his crucial task at hand, to draw Danny out of his shell and help the man abandon whatever pain he's bearing from the past, for good.

Flack goes to stand behind the couch, his hands in the pockets of his jeans. Danny doesn't seem to realize that he's there. The guy has halted before his display of photographs that hangs in an organized cluster on a wall perpendicular to the television set, facing the floor-to-ceiling windows of the living area.

It's eerie how motionless and quiet Danny is.

"Dan?"

He moseys around the couch to stand at Danny's side.

Upon glancing at the other man, Flack realizes Danny is studying some of the pictures so intently that he's lost in a world of his own. The concentration on that appealing face causes his lips to arch up in a fond smile.

Ah, he remembers Danny with that precise expression whenever the man was doing some meticulous research for a case, staring at a computer monitor or a book with rapt eyes, lips pursed like it is at the moment. Danny gets that look on his face, and it'll usually take a loud call of his name or a jostle to the shoulder or arm to capture his attention.

Flack follows Danny's stare to one particular photograph. It's a group shot of him together with Mac, Stella and Hawkes that was taken some years ago during an annual party at CSI headquarters. Mac has his left arm around Stella's shoulders in a very loving gesture, and Stella's left hand is clasped over his. Their wedding rings gleam under the camera flash.

His smile softens as his gaze falls on Hawkes' crinkled features. Hawkes' teeth are blinding white in a huge grin. The man managed to wrap an arm tight around his waist before Adam snapped the photograph, and only a sightless person is incapable of noticing the intimacy between them. His eyes shut for a mere instant.

Oh yes, he still remembers the ferocity of their kisses and caresses that night. He'll never forget them.

He opens his eyes, glances at Danny again, and what he sees on the man's visage makes his chest ache deep inside. Those blue eyes are wide and haunted with a pain with which he was once so familiar. He yearns very much to reach out to Danny, to stroke away the stiffness, the anguish, the _fear_, in that body gone so skinny. To draw his former lover and best friend, his _other half_, into his arms, hold him close like he always did, before all the lies and stupidity and their foolish pride robbed them of their years of love.

Instead, he is only able to stand where is, a hot wetness behind his eyes when Danny speaks in a broken whisper at last.

"Tell me, Don."

Danny's lower lip is quavering.

"Tell me everythin' he did ... so I can do it right this time."

Each word pierces Flack like a jagged dagger.

He has to grind his teeth and swallow hard to preserve his equanimity. It's agonizing, so agonizing, to see Danny standing there with wetness trailing down his cheeks, with no walls, no defenses, nothing encasing his exposed heart and soul anymore. A man without his armor should appear vulnerable and weak, and yet, Flack has never seen Danny looking so brave and strong as he is right now.

"He loved me," Flack murmurs, gazing at Danny through blurred eyes. "It's all he's ever had to do, Danny."

His words strikes Danny as acutely as Danny's did him.

He watches Danny's face crumple with emotion. It's even more distressing to witness the man's internal anguish contorting those attractive features, to _see_ with his naked eye just how much pain Danny is containing inside himself.

"I did, even then," Danny whispers hoarsely, his head bowed and his eyes closed. "I still do."

Flack stretches out a tremulous hand and caresses one side of Danny's damp face, brushing away moisture with his thumb. Danny feels so warm. So alive. So real.

And he knows he's not dreaming this time, as Danny's lifts his head and looks him straight in the eyes and declares with a steadfast, low voice, "I never stopped lovin' you. I won't blame you if you don't believe me, but it's true … I never stopped lovin' you. _Never_."

What can he say, to such words that are full of so much hope, words that he's certain are spoken with total truth and sincerity?

What can he say to them, without falling to his knees in the enlightenment that his prayers have truly been heard and answered?

"S'was 'bout _time_ ya came home," he rasps, his lips arched up in a wavering smile. He doesn't give a damn that his face's as wet as Danny's now. "New York hasn't been the same without you, Danny."

_I have never been the same without you, Danny._

They stare into each other's eyes, and Flack feels the same wobbliness in his knees that he experienced earlier at Sullivan's. It's even worse this time. He has to lock his legs in place just to keep standing.

Does Danny understand?

Is their bond still as strong as it used to be?

"I haven't been the same without you either, Don."

Hearing that, along with seeing the immeasurable sentiment in Danny's bright, blue eyes, is like discovering the final piece of the jigsaw puzzle that is himself, after eons upon eons of searching. He senses Danny's hands cupping his face, and that last piece slides into its rightful place in his soul with their shared, faint laughter and the touching of their foreheads.

"My New York," Danny whispers into his lips. "My home."

Their first kiss in seven long years is an unhurried and tender one. It's a closed-lip one, soft brushes of their lips against one another's, tentative touches that are sweet and almost innocent in their nature. The hesitancy in Danny's motions speaks to Flack of how much anxiety there still is within the other man, the apprehension that all this is merely an evanescent dream, just another beautiful lie.

Flack understands the feeling and more, but fear has ceased to rule him. He's wiser now. Better. Stronger.

He'll endure for both of them, because he can and more than anything else, he desires to do so.

Flack parts his lips to encourage Danny to do likewise. He feels Danny stiffen for a moment, and then, Danny throws his arms around his shoulders, crushing him in a powerful embrace as their tongues duel and their lips mold together in a series of fervent kisses. He encloses his own arms tight around Danny's torso, hands roaming beneath the other man's leather jacket, stroking that warm, familiar though slimmer body, clutching Danny close to him like he once did.

He tastes hints of whisky on Danny's lips. He feels bristly facial hair grazing his cheeks and chin. He hears the muffled moans and sighs emanating from Danny's mouth into his, and something within him untangles at its seams, something that causes him to pull Danny even closer to him, to kiss the other man more ferociously than ever.

_Oh God, Danny tastes so good … smells so good, feels so good and hot -_

Danny lets out another moan.

It's one that certainly doesn't sound like the pleasured sort.

All of a sudden, Danny's becoming a heavier weight in his embrace.

Flack rears his head back, just a bit, to look at Danny's face, and gasps as Danny's eyes roll back into his head. The alarm of seeing all color drain from Danny's mien slows down his reflexes, but his body is already taking intuitive action, clutching Danny to his chest and securing his grip around the unconscious man's torso. Danny really _has_ lost weight and body mass.

He curses himself inwardly. Shit, how _low_ can he _get? _Danny's _ill_ and in no freaking condition to be participating in some _kissing marathon_, and here he is, sucking Danny's face off when he should be carting the guy to bed with some aspirin and food.

"Danny?" he murmurs in concern.

He doesn't receive any response. Danny's eyes are shut, and the way the man's slumped against his chest and shoulder, limp and lifeless, he knows Danny's out like a light.

"_Damnit_," he berates himself under his breath.

That doesn't get any reaction out of Danny either.

Flack thinks it's rather funny that he's only relaxing now, after Danny's blacked out and no longer able to run away again.

No longer able to see him at the edge of restraint, so close to losing it big time.

He thinks it's funny too, that Danny is the sole human being in the world who has such capacity to make him feel higher then a kite for one moment, then make him weep in the next. Such power over him, and he doesn't mind it at all.

_True love drives out all fear, remember?_

He smiles to himself in a forlorn manner. Heh, how appropriate it is that the voice of wisdom this time sounds like Aiden. He's wondered before whether things would have been different between him and Danny had she not died. Would Danny have left him then? Would they have stayed together instead? Maybe, maybe not. No one will ever know for sure.

Flack nuzzles the side of Danny's head, his nose prickled by shorn, brown hair. Danny's hair smells somewhat different from how he remembered it. Probably because of a different shampoo or something. He grants himself a few seconds to just rock them back and forth, to feel the unforgettable warmth and _life_ of Danny's body against him, around him. To kiss the other man on the temple, and know that it's not just another dream or another old memory this time.

"Mmnnh."

A muffled moan is the only warning Flack receives before Danny abruptly jerks awake in his arms, gasping aloud with fright, thrashing and attempting to shove himself away.

"Whoa, _whoa_ … S'okay, Danny, you're _safe_," Flack murmurs, nudging Danny's head back onto his shoulder and stroking the back of the man's head without thought. "It's me ... It's okay."

He suspects it's his voice more than his words that does the job of calming Danny down.

"Don? I don't feel so good."

Danny's mumbling, and the weakness in Danny's voice prompts Flack to lay his palm on the other man's high forehead. The fever is still there.

The way Danny had behaved so edgy and terrified upon returning to consciousness perturbs him. Danny's _not _the type of guy who gets spooked easy. Flack ought to know; he'd been there by Danny's side during some of the man's worst predicaments. The subway shooting in which Detective Minhaus, an undercover cop, was killed had gotten Danny all tense and upset and angry, but not frightened like what he witnessed minutes ago. Not even _close_. Getting locked up with a dead billionaire in a steel-enforced panic room didn't affect Danny for long. Mere hours after getting out, Danny was in a pub drinking beer with his brother Louie as if nothing happened.

As for the entire Tanglewood business with Louie? Even _that_ hadn't given Danny nightmares. just lots of anger, self-reproach and guilt and _more_ guilt. Needless to say, Danny was a pro at hiding his inner turmoil from the world, from everyone.

Except him.

And perhaps that too, like everything else about him and Danny, has always been predestined.

Danny has the power to turn his world upside down every time, to electrify his existence whenever he starts to assume there's nothing more in life that'll ever surprise him. To make him feel truly alive when nothing else can. He, on the other hand, has the power to break through all of Danny's masks and shields, to see the real man within. To accept and love Danny as who he is, and not expect him to be someone else.

Complements of each other.

Yin and yang as one.

Balance.

"Ya got a fever," Flack says while he pets Danny's hair. "Think you can give the _sun_ a run for its money."

Danny huffs an inaudible chuckle. "I'm hot, but not _that_ hot."

Flack replies with nothing more than a soft smile. He's rocking them to and fro again. The motion seems to soothe Danny, who is clutching at his jacket and nestling his face in the crook between his neck and shoulder.

"Whatcha _do_ to yourself, hm?" Flack asks gently.

"Rainin' … cold … " Danny rasps after a minute. "Nowhere to go."

The last three words are filled with so much misery and resignation that Flack is rendered speechless. How could Danny have _ever_ thought that, with his _family_ and all his _friends_ right here, a mere phone call away?

How could Danny have ever thought that _he_ wasn't someone to go to in his time of need?

_The answer is simple_, his heart says, _he believes that you're still with Hawkes. That you still hate him for what he did to you_.

The revelation causes his breath to snag in his throat.

He's absolved Danny long ago for past transgressions.

The question is, has Danny done the same for _himself?_

Flack gazes down at the man in his embrace, and like a candle lit in the darkness, the knowledge of how to demolish the remaining walls standing between them arrives with amazing clarity. It's so easy that he's annoyed with himself for not thinking of it any sooner.

Years ago, he had shattered their relationship with angry, ruthless words.

In the approaching morning, he will mend what he had destroyed with words as well, words that he's been yearning to say to Danny for a very, very long time.

For now, getting Danny into bed and well rested is the top priority.

"Ya got me … ya _always_ have," he murmurs into Danny's hair, and he senses Danny nuzzling his neck, a silent appreciation of his assertion. He is content with the wordless display of affection. A single picture can paint a thousand words. A single gesture can speak of just as many, if not more.

What matters to him is that Danny has returned to him, and that is more than he could have ever asked for.

"C'mon … gonna getcha some _food_ to go along with some aspirin, okay?"

Sustaining his hold around Danny's midriff, Flack leads them at a leisurely pace from the living area to the guest bedroom. The lethargy shows in Danny shuffling his feet and letting Flack support much of his weight. For a millisecond, Flack is tempted to hook his arm under Danny's knees and simply carry the guy the rest of the way to the room, but _just _a millisecond. The last time he'd tried that, Danny had continuously whacked him on the head with a plastic hammer that was part of the party packs handed out during an annual party at CSI headquarters.

It had been the night Danny had whispered such love into his lips. The night his soul became forever linked to his home city, to the man who deemed him to be as beautiful as the metropolis that is New York.

The minute Danny closed the front door of his apartment, he'd seized Danny and hoisted the atypically ebullient man into his arms, and staggered to the bedroom. Despite the abuse to his poor, thick skull, he carried Danny all the way without tripping once. Danny had been more than happy after that to give Flack the opportunity to atone for lugging him around like a virgin bride across the threshold.

Danny would have probably beaten his head some more, should the guy have known that Flack had been serious about them eloping to the Netherlands or Canada to get married.

And he wonders what Danny will say, should he ask the question again, and realize he means it with all his heart.

"You hungry? Did ya eat somethin' at Sullivan's 'fore I went there?"

Flack loosens his arms to let Danny slip out of his arms and sit on the side of the bed.

"No ... Just whisky."

"Okay." Flack sends Danny a meaningful gaze. "Peanut butter and jelly?"

Danny goes rigid, and stares up at him with widened, puffy eyes. It's astonishment that he sees in them, a nearly child-like astonishment that he actually remembers Danny's favorite snack sandwich.

"Wha, ya think I've forgotten?" Flack says with an amused smile. He taps the side of his head using a forefinger. "Don Flack, Jr. never forgets."

When the words leave his mouth, he is suddenly overwhelmed by a powerful sense of déjà vu. He's said those words many times, though just to a select few in his lifetime. He blinks, and sees a Danny from the past sitting before him, Danny with his spiky hair streaked with gold, grinning at him as the naked man tugs him onto the bed.

"_You never forget anythin', huh?"_

"_No, specially not when it concerns you."_

"_Really, Don? Even if ya got some lobotomy or somethin'? Ya think you won't forget me even then?"_

"_It's kinda hard to forget half of yourself."_

He blinks once more, and the Danny before him is the older Danny he met tonight. Danny, whose eyes are so old and yet so trusting.

Danny, who never stopped loving him.

"You never forget anythin', huh?"

It is Flack's turn to be taken aback. It's true, it seems, that the most significant moments in life repeat themselves.

His lips move on their own volition.

"No. Especially not when it concerns you."

He sees the comprehension, the recollection, dawning in those blue eyes.

"Yeah." Danny blinks. "It's kinda hard to forget half of yerself … isn't it?"

Flack's eyelids flicker shut over hot eyes.

It won't take much to convince himself that nothing's changed after all. That they never left each other. That they never lied to one another, or hurt each other, or gave in to fear and permitted it to destroy the life they might have had. That the last seven years of being apart never came to pass.

But doing so would be surrendering to that fear again, resigning themselves to another existence of lies, and he'll _never _let that happen _ever_ again. No, they will learn from their mistakes, accept that the past is unchangeable, move on and never look back.

No more pretense. No more living in denial.

Only truth can set a soul free.

"Don?"

Danny is grasping his wrists, then his hands, entwining their fingers.

Flack opens his eyes at half-mast and glances down at Danny. The concern softening Danny's facial features makes his lips bow up in a tender smile. He strokes one hand down the left side of Danny's face, and as Danny's lips part in the beginnings of speech, Flack murmurs, "We'll talk in the mornin', 'kay?"

Danny appears to want to say something anyway, then changes his mind and closes his mouth, giving Flack a single nod.

"Here." Flack takes out the box of aspirin from his jacket pocket, and hands it to Danny. "I'll go get some water and make ya a peanut butter and jelly sandwich. Ya like that?"

"Yeah, that sounds good." Danny smiles at him.

He's about to turn and walk to the bedroom door when Danny grabs his hand.

"Don, I …" - Danny swallows perceptibly - "Thank you. For lettin' me stay."

The amalgam of remorse and tremendous gratefulness in Danny's expression causes a pang in his chest. He gives Danny's hand a heartening squeeze.

"Don't worry 'bout it. You can stay for as long as you like."

Danny smirks, and in an attempt to lighten the mood, says in the most casual manner possible, "What? Even if it's _forever?_"

"Yes."

Flack merely whispered it, but it sounds as if it's echoing through the cosmos.

Danny looks like he's been gut-punched and told he'd won a billion dollars at the same time. Flack figures it's an apt time as any to leave Danny alone for a bit, and he needs to go get some water and make that sandwich fast in case Danny passes out a second time while he's at it.

"Ya want anythin' else with yer sandwich?"

Danny shakes his head in silence. The man's so bowled over that he can't speak.

"Okay, I'll be back soon."

Flack feels Danny squeeze his hand like he did moments ago, and he smiles again, knowing that there's just one more step to take. Just one more barrier to remove before they can say goodbye to the past in all honesty and walk forward as one. It will take place in the morning, and it will be the most difficult step of all, particularly for Danny.

He knows, however, that Danny will come through for both of them.

And he will be there, to the end.

At the bedroom door, Flack swivels around to look at Danny one more time. Danny's removing his boots and taking off his jacket. The curtains of the room's windows aren't drawn yet, and moonlight cascades through the glass and onto Danny's back, lighting him in stark white from behind. Danny's eyelids are lowered and his dark eyelashes fan high cheekbones. When he's folded up his jacket and placed it on the bed next to him, Danny tilts his head back, arching that slender neck and pushing his shoulders back to stretch his arms and body.

It's a sight that takes Flack's breath away. His mind commits it to vibrant memory, along with all the other sensual, cherished memories he has of the attractive, blue-eyed man.

As he's in his kitchen spreading some creamy peanut butter onto bread, he hums softly to himself, and contemplates how enjoyable it will be to have a giant photograph of Danny in that exact pose.

Hanging over their bed.

**( Oooo …... oooO )**

The scars on Danny's forearms are haunting Flack's meditations.

He's sitting on the side of the bed, so close to Danny slumbering that their hips are touching, separated only by the blanket swathing Danny from chin to toes. He's changed into a more cozy t-shirt and long cotton pants, which is a deviation from the norm since he usually sleeps in the nude. Besides, it's rather cold tonight and he doesn't want to leave Danny on his own. The man's fever hasn't ebbed away yet.

He caresses Danny's forehead again, to check whether the high temperature has gone down, and to simply touch him. Danny looks so much younger when he's sleeping. Like a little boy, regardless of the facial hair. In the semi-dimness of the room that's lit by just one bedside lamp, the lines on Danny's face and the dark circles around those closed eyes are concealed by diffused shadows, and the blanket is covering Danny's arms.

Arms with long, dark scars where there were once none.

_What happened to you in Montana, Danny? Things must have gotten so bad for you to end up this way, _Flack thinks. _Will you tell me what happened, in the morning?_

The words remain in his mind. If things go the way he hopes they will, he'll find out within a matter of hours anyhow.

Flack's gaze shifts from Danny's relaxed mien to the empty glass and plate left on the bedside table.

Danny had devoured the two sandwiches like he hadn't eaten in _days_. He would have made another two, except Danny went beet red when the last crumb was gone and protested heavily about him making more food. A few minutes later, after swallowing some aspirin, Danny was fast asleep and dead to the world. Flack could play heavy metal at full blast on his stereo system and Danny would probably still sleep like a baby all through the night. Danny didn't even so much as twitch while he tugged the blanket from beneath the snoozing man and arranged Danny's limbs into a more comfortable position.

It was then that the long sleeves of Danny's shirt rolled up and exposed those shocking scars.

A fading bruise on the left forearm had caught Flack's attention at first. It was large enough that Flack speculated it might have been caused by Danny falling down and knocking against something hard, or by getting hit by something. Or someone. He swears that he could see the print of a human fistin the shape of the bruise. He ever finds out who did that to Danny, the jerk's _dead meat_.

He soon forgot the contusion after detecting the scars. He had stared at them in aghast silence for three minutes straight, cautiously outlining them with his fingertips, unable to believe they were really there. Danny had always prided himself on his well-built arms. They were one of the reasons the man loved wearing tank tops, so he could show them off. That, and Danny knew how much Flack relished staring at him in tight, sleeveless shirts.

But now, with scars like these …

Flack sighs. He has his work cut out for him, if the reason Danny's become so jumpy and apprehensive is associated with the scars. His gut instincts are telling him that it's going to require a _lot_ of encouragement from him for Danny to just talk about them, much less voluntarily show them to him.

Even with his eyes shut, they're clear as day in his mind. The scars are long, straight streaks of darker tissue that criss-cross along Danny's forearms, from above the wrists to the elbows. They're diverse in length; some are longer and thicker and others, and they appear as if they were made by a sharp weapon.

Like a knife.

It worries Flack to a great extent that Danny might have inflicted them upon himself.

No. _No_.

Flack scowls, his brows furrowing and his lips twisting downwards in vehemence.

No, Danny's _not_ like that.

No matter how terrible the situation may have gotten, he's certain Danny would never resort to _suicide_.

Flack opens his eyes, and out of the blue, he recalls an occurrence where he was at CSI headquarters, standing in the morgue with Mac and Hammerback around the corpse of a young woman who'd been stabbed to death. Hammerback was spouting medical jargon and details that Mac obviously understood, so while they talked shop, he studied the DB's wounds. With all the blood washed away, the gouges almost appeared fake, like they were Hollywood horror make up rather than very real and brutal stab wounds that had ceased the life of a human being.

Hammerback raised one of the victim's arms. Pointed at the deep gashes on the outer forearm.

The ME stared him directly in the eye and said, "Defense wounds."

Flack gasps.

_Defense wounds_. Why hadn't he thought of _that?_

His eyes flit back to where Danny's arms lie underneath the dark red blanket. Now that he thinks about it, he hadn't taken note of where the scars were on the forearms. He'd been too shocked at merely seeing them on Danny's once unmarred skin.

Were they on the inner side, or the outer side?

He curls his fingers around the edge of the blanket and gently pulls it down, baring Danny's body down to the waist. He had placed Danny's arms in such a way that the hands lay on top of the guy's belly, allowing the forearms to rest on the sides and the upper arms to remain on the bed. The left sleeve of Danny's shirt is rolled up to the elbow, and Flack immediately sees that the scars are, indeed, on the outer side of the forearms. Just to be sure, he grasps Danny's wrist and turns the forearm towards him with care.

Some of the scars are long enough that they end on the underside of the arms, but there are none on the inner side.

Defense wounds.

Danny had received these scars as a result of an _attack_.

Flack has to suck in deep breaths to repress the rapid fury boiling within him. His lips are in a thin line of anger as he returns Danny's arm to its former position and draws the blanket back up to the slumbering man's chin.

Who _did_ this to Danny? Did it happen during a case? Was Danny assaulted by some perp?

Or had this been the outcome of things gone sour between Danny and Lindsay?

One of Flack's hands clenches into a taut fist on the bed. The sinister theory that springs to his mind is one that makes him both nauseated and outraged to the marrow of his bones.

Did _she _do this?

He considers the possibility for a sheer second, then squeezes his eyes shut, rubbing at his forehead with a thumb and forefinger in skepticism. Geez, he may not have liked her much, but even he can't envision her capable of an act this cruel.

Still, the remote chance is there.

Many things can change in seven years. People can change in seven years, and not always for the better.

"Hnnnmh."

Danny's hushed moan snaps him out of his brooding. In the serene silence of the bedroom, he observes Danny slowly roll onto his side towards him, curling up into a fetal position. Danny's brows contract in a slight frown, then ease as the man returns to a deep slumber. Flack can't help smiling at the way Danny's reflexively huddled beneath the blanket. Now the guy appears even more like a sleeping child, all bundled up and hiding his face from the light of the bedside lamp nearby.

Flack reluctantly gets to his feet to reduce the brightness of the lamp via its switch. He glances at the digital clock on the bedside table next to the lamp, and sees that it's not even nine o'clock yet. Way too early for him to retire to bed, and it's Saturday tomorrow and a day off for him. Not necessary for him to awaken early. Maybe he'll go watch some television, check up on Danny now and then till it's bedtime.

"Huh, Letterman's not on tonight …" he mutters, scratching at the side of his neck.

The room having become darker doesn't affect him maneuvering around. Thanks to his constant walking about with bare feet, he has the floor plan of his whole apartment ingrained on his brain by now. He's more than able to move in utter darkness without bumping into anything.

Tonight, though, isn't like any other regular night where he's alone.

Not six steps away from the bedside table, his foot slams into something big that's neither soft or hard. He lets out a grunt of surprise and staggers a couple of steps to the side, almost falling flat on his face.

_Damn_, what the -

Once he recovers his equilibrium, he nudges the object with his foot.

Oh. It's Danny's duffel bag. He'd completely forgotten about it.

He looks in Danny's direction, and is relieved that the man's sleep isn't disturbed by his clumsiness. Kneeling down, he feels around with his hands, patting the bag and the floor around it. The bag's zip had opened up, and stuff had definitely fallen out of it. He encounters an open box with some papers and assorted objects in it, and its cover a few hands' breath away. It's easier said than done to not wonder what exactly is inside the box. As much as he wishes to know, it would be a breach of Danny's privacy and he knows what it's like to have people snooping around trying to dig up dirt on him. It's a repellent act, and there's no way he's going to do the same to anybody else.

He places the cover back onto the box, then skims his hands on the floor in wider circles to check for any other things he might have missed. To his left, over an arm's length away, his hand lands on top of something small and round, the size of his palm.

Something with … _netting_. And _feathers_.

Curiosity piqued, he picks it up and shuffles on his knees to the bedside table to better view the unknown object in his grasp.

A minute passes before he recognizes what it is he's holding under the lamp.

It's a dreamcatcher.

The same one he had bought for Danny many years ago, around the time their friendship had just begun to develop into so much more.

Flack's large eyes widen.

He examines it from numerous angles, staring at the four light blue feathers dangling down from the bottom half of the dreamcatcher's circular frame, at the intricate, florid mesh stretched within that frame. There's a hole in the net, and he's rather certain that when he purchased it, it didn't have one.

Flack's thick brows lower in rumination.

Hmm, he can't recall any longer where he'd gotten it. The only distinct memory he has of the item is him presenting it to Danny at the labs.

It was late one evening. He'd driven to CSI headquarters from his precinct, intent on surprising Danny with his gift. Danny was alone in one of the laboratories, staring at a computer monitor screen with squinted eyes and looking like he needed a nice, long break from the monotony of research. Flack crept up behind the guy, and caught the CSI unawares with a hug and a raspberry kiss on the neck.

He'd laughed so hard at Danny squeaking like a giant mouse and leaping off the chair the way the guy did. That was probably not a very smart move, given that Danny was all annoyed and huffy as he took out the brand new dreamcatcher from his jacket pocket and dangled it in front of Danny's face.

"What's _that?_" Danny said with an obvious pout, arms crossed over his chest.

"It's a dreamcatcher," he replied, jiggling the object to make the feathers dance in the air. "Ya know, to catch bad dreams so ya won't have any when ya sleep."

Danny's pout intensified.

"Why would I need it? That's just superstitious mumbo-jumbo."

Reliving that scene in his mind, Flack is amused at his past self for feeling so dejected at Danny's snub of his gift. Danny _did_ have a point about it being just superstitious mumbo-jumbo. But back then, he'd been younger. A young man who was head over heels in love with a friend who became more than a friend. A young man who had so much to learn about life and its joys and tribulations.

He doesn't remember what he said in answer. Perhaps he didn't say anything, not verbally. His expression must have, however, because Danny was suddenly gazing at him with big, receptive eyes, all sullenness vanished into thin air.

He was pulling his hand back, about to crush the dreamcatcher in a fist and chuck it away.

And then, Danny's hand was around his, around the dreamcatcher.

"Why would I need it?" Danny said again.

The mellowness of Danny's voice persuaded him to look at the other man's face once more. Danny was smiling tenderly, and the sincerity in the curve of those lips diminished his melancholy by a tenfold.

"I dunno," Flack mumbled, feeling like a dunce. "I just thought … ya'd like it 'cause you're into artistic stuff … and all that." He shrugged. Oh boy, his face was warm.

Danny had turned his hand upwards and was studying the dreamcatcher on his palm with rapt eyes.

"It _is_ a gorgeous piece of work," Danny says after some time.

"Yeah, well. I picked the one with the light blue feathers 'cause …" - oh man, he hoped his face wasn't becoming more red - "'Cause the blue feathers kinda reminded me of your eyes."

He had anticipated some sarcastic laugh or at least a sneer from Danny. What he hadn't expected, due to the risk somebody could barge in on them, was Danny kissing him then and there.

"You're silly, ya know that?" Danny whispered against his mouth. The man was still smiling.

Flack started to reply, and was dazed into silence when Danny kissed him a second time, looked him in the eye and said, "Why would I need it … when I already have the best one?"

He hadn't been able to articulate a word for a while after that.

And right now, kneeling at the bedside table and staring with hot eyes at the dreamcatcher in his hands, he is similarly overwhelmed.

Danny had accepted the present from him in the end, but he'd never seen it again since that evening. He had assumed Danny threw it away, what with how the guy initially reacted to it.

Flack traces the edge of the dreamcatcher's frame with his forefinger.

Danny's kept it. All this time.

Even after the man left him.

He closes his eyes, and there in his thoughts, Danny's standing before him once more, gazing at him with such hopeful eyes.

_I won't blame you if you don't believe me, but it's true … I never stopped lovin' you. Never._

His fingers tighten around the dreamcatcher.

He knows it's true.

The proof is right here in his hands.

"Mmnh, _no_ …"

Danny's moaning in a sleep that is transforming into a fitful one.

Flack places the dreamcatcher on the bedside table and turns towards the bed, laying one hand on the top of Danny's head and the other on Danny's upper arm. Danny's forehead feels cooler. The fever's finally going down.

"No … _don't _…"

Danny has moved his arms up in front of his face, as if he's blocking something from view.

Or protecting himself from a violent assault.

"_Sshh_, it's alright, I'm here," Flack murmurs in a kind voice. He strokes the other man's hair, praying the physical contact will soothe away whatever nightmare Danny is suffering.

"_Don't _…"

Danny's entire body abruptly stiffens under the blanket. Danny's face is no longer obscured by the cloth, and the terror twisting those attractive features rips at Flack's heart.

_Shit_, what he wouldn't give to kick the living _crap_ out of the fucker who hurt Danny.

The anxiety is building more and more within Danny, he can sense it. Flack has to forcibly restrain himself from pressing Danny down on the bed or shake the squirming guy awake. He has no clue whatsoever how Danny will respond to either treatment; Danny's earlier behavior in the living room after blacking out cautions him that doing either is a lousy idea.

For one tense moment, it seems as though Danny is going to lash out with his legs, tangled as they are in the blanket.

Flack increases the pressure of his caresses along Danny's rounded head. If Danny can't hear him, perhaps the man can still _feel_ him.

Another tense moment ticks by.

Then little by little, Danny loosens up, going limp on the bed. The fright on Danny's visage gradually disappears, leaving a tranquil countenance in its place.

"_Shh_, that's right, it's Don … I'm here."

Danny's calm and quiet. The nightmare has departed.

Flack returns to sitting on the side of the bed, and continues to stroke Danny's head and face. Forget television and sleep. He's just fine where he is. He's not leaving, not when he still has a responsibility here, a responsibility he's more than willing to undertake.

"It's okay," he whispers to a semi-dozing Danny who is now holding his other hand.

Something deep within his chest quavers with emotion as he watches Danny languidly stroke his hand a few times, the man's eyelids flickering. Danny had only ever done this once in all their years together, clinging onto his hand this way and stroking it with such reliance.

It had been at the hospital. After that bomb had shredded his abdomen and almost killed him and left him bedridden for weeks.

He hears Danny mumble something disjointed. Those eyelids flutter some more and then, seconds later, they fully close again. Danny's hands become motionless and lax.

It is only after some minutes that Danny's murmured words register on his brain.

Flack smiles in affection, and even though he knows Danny won't hear it, he answers the sleeping man's plea.

"Don't worry, I'm here ... Your dreamcatcher is here."

**xiii. "We'll get by ..."**

The sun has yet to rise.

At this time of the morning, Flack is more often than not still in bed, snoozing away until his alarm clock goes off at seven. He'll climb out of bed and head for the bathroom to wash up and change into his work clothes. After that, it's a swift breakfast of toast with butter and honey and a lovely, hot cup of tea. Used to drink coffee, but his preference of morning beverage has switched over the years. Hawkes' recommendation of tea being healthier in the long run had something to do with that.

This particular morning, breakfast is an event for two. Not only is there toast, there is also scrambled eggs, some fried sausages and slices of bacon. There's a big pot of tea brewing, and its herbal scent fills the kitchen with an invigorating, pleasant aroma.

Flack takes a deep breath as he pours the hot tea into two mugs. _Ah_, Darjeeling. His favorite tea of all.

Danny is sitting at the dining table at his behest, patiently waiting for breakfast to be served, tapping his fingers on the table top as he's doing so. The man's hair is too short to look the slightest ruffled. His clothes, on the other hand, are disheveled and wrinkled and very slept in. The dark circles around his eyes are lighter now due to the ten hours of recuperation he's had.

In his case, Flack was awake long before Danny was. He had attempted to sleep, and took a nap that was brief. Once out of bed, he spent some time lounging on his couch, reading the latest news via the internet on his laptop. Later, he looked out at the glittering panorama beyond his living room windows and pondered on a strategy to encourage Danny into talking today. He'd arrived at a decision that food was the way to go when Danny shambled out of the guest bedroom and into the living area. Flack immediately strode up to Danny and felt the drowsy man's forehead. He was very pleased to discover the fever gone.

"Don, I can help with the -"

"_Nuh_ uh." Flack pivots around and waggles a finger in Danny's direction. "You just sit there and let me bring the food over."

Flack turns back to the kitchen counter and takes two plates of scrambled eggs, bacon and sausages to the dining table, setting one in front of Danny, and the other in front of the empty chair next to Danny's. Then he goes back for the full mugs of tea, and hands one to Danny.

Danny grins at the cup's bright pink color and yellow chicks painted on it.

"I didn't buy that," Flack says, and Danny snickers.

"Yeah, so who did?"

Before Flack says anything, Danny's expression unexpectedly turns solemn. It's an expression that's begging Flack to ignore his inquiry. Flack is baffled by the hasty alteration in Danny's demeanor. And then, he figures it out.

Danny must be presuming a former girlfriend bought it.

Or _Hawkes_, even.

Well. Sheldon apparently remains a sensitive issue of discussion.

Nonetheless, he's going to put Danny's doubts to rest right quick.

"A little girl called Mandy," Flack replies. He smiles in reminiscence of the NYPD Medal of Honor award ceremony. He was speaking with some of the parents of the children whom he'd rescued, including Mandy's mother who bestowed him with the cup and said Mandy hand-picked it for him. She'd apologized profusely for its very girlish pink color and the even more unmasculine print of baby chickens on the mug, but he merely laughed in amusement and made sure to thank Mandy for it. How could he ever refuse such a sweet gift?

He's man enough to own a cup like that. An adorable eight-year-old girl certainly thought so.

Danny sends him an inquisitive look. "Mandy?"

"Yeah. She was one of the children who was in that diner shootin'."

Danny's blue eyes become warm. "You mean, one of the children you saved."

"If ya wanna put it that way," Flack says, shrugging his shoulders.

"Nothin' wrong with sayin' ya saved those kids, Don. That's what ya did."

"Well, like I said 'fore, if any other cop was in my place, they'd do the same thing."

Danny smirks and says in a self-deriding tone, "Yeah, even _me_, right?"

"Yeah. Specially you."

The change of one word and its significance isn't lost on Danny. The guy avoids commenting on it by picking up his fork and eating some scrambled eggs. Flack considers teasing Danny about it, and stops himself in time. If they're going to approach the topic of Danny's past seven years, he'll have to tread with prudence, and that means steering clear of anything that'll make Danny clam up. For now.

Throughout the easygoing meal, Flack notes that Danny is frequently casting glances his way. He would be eating something, with his head dipped, and Danny would stare at him till he raised his head and looked back at the other man. Danny would then look away, acting as if he was doing anything except gawk at Flack.

Flack considers this very humorous.

"What? Do I have a _tree_ growin' outta my face?" he asks, lifting one eyebrow.

Danny's lips arch up in an abashed smile. Whoops, caught in the act.

"You're wearin' _glasses_."

Flack blinks.

Oh, that's right. Danny has never seen him with spectacles before.

"Yeah, eyesight ain't what it used to be." He pushes his black, steel-framed glasses higher up his nose with his forefinger. "Had to get these last year. Tiny words were startin' to go blurry on me."

Danny's staring openly at him now.

"S'like Superman."

Both of Flack's eyebrows shoot up. "_Superman?_"

"Yeah." Danny's smile morphs into a toothy grin. "Glasses on, you're Clark Kent. Glasses off, you're Superman."

Flack chuckles at this comparison. "Hey, I thought we agreed that _you're_ Superman."

Danny frowns for a minute, then smiles again. Ah, the guy has recalled their chat in Sullivan's last night.

"Oh, _geez_, I'm no Superman. What kinda lousy Superman catches a fever after standin' 'round in the rain?"

Flack simply smiles back, and finishes the remainder of his toast. Danny appears to have already forgotten his own question, and has resumed staring at him. It doesn't bother him in the least; he often stared at Danny in an akin manner once upon a time. Who'd have thought Danny would find him wearing glasses so … captivating?

The clean up afterwards progresses into a short albeit fun game of flicking and slapping bubbly foam on each other. Danny wouldn't heed his request to let him do all the washing up, and had insisted on helping him to dry the dishes and utensils as well. Consequently, while Danny is using a long cloth to towel a cleansed, wet plate, Flack is hit by the impulse to dab Danny's nose with frothy suds. The foam is so thick that it sticks to the tip of Danny's nose, and it's spherical, like a deer's cute snout.

"Danny the Soap-Nosed Reindeer," Flack says with a deadpan face.

Danny gapes at him, glances down the bridge of his nose with nearly crossed eyes, then up at him once more.

Without glancing away, Danny scoops a whole handful of the white, bubbly stuff from the sink.

"Oh yeah? Here's some soap pancake!"

His glasses prevent the foam from getting into his eyes. Unfortunately, his mouth had been open, and he's spitting out soap and wiping at his face and spectacles as Danny laughs with glee and hops out of his range. _Yeech_, soap tastes _icky_.

"_Ugh_, remind me not to buy any more of 'em _soap pancakes_. Too full a' _chemicals_," he drawls, taking off his glasses and setting them next to the sink. He can see fine without them. He'll clean them later.

He hears Danny snigger a little more. Then, he feels Danny's fingers upon his face, brushing away residual suds from his lower jaw and right cheek. He, in turn, pinches the foamy blob off Danny's nose and shakes it off his hand over the sink. They stand face to face, with mere inches between them, gazing into one another's eyes.

All of a sudden, the air is wrought with staggering tension. The scorching kind of tension. The kind Flack senses just before he's swept away by the exhilarating sensations of Danny's solid body against his, of Danny's lips pressed on his, of being deep inside Danny and listening to his lover's cries of ecstasy. The mind-blowing kind that's causing his entire body to tingle from head to toe right now.

He knows Danny's feeling precisely what he's feeling. He sees it in Danny's humongous eyes, in the way the pupils are dilated, the way Danny's lips are parted and that broad chest is heaving with muted panting.

His hands reach up to clasp Danny's upper arms.

Danny's leaning forward even as he pulls the other man towards him.

Their heads angle in opposite directions.

Their lips touch.

_Boom_.

Flack grunts when his lower back collides with the edge of the sink. It's the only noise that manages to escape his mouth. Danny is kissing and fondling him so zealously and moaning so much that it's all he hears, and _fuck_, it turns him on so bad.

"I missed you," Danny's whispering into his lips, "I missed you _so fuckin' much_ -"

The huskiness of Danny's voice breaks the modicum of self-control he has left into a billion shards. Danny's neck arches, exposing smooth skin, and Flack latches fast on it with his lips and teeth, planting kisses and nibbles from under the lower jaw down to the hollow between Danny's collarbones. The high-pitched groan that reverberates in the air makes Flack grin from ear to ear.

He hasn't forgotten Danny's hot spots at all, _noooo_, _sir_.

Danny's literally writhing in his embrace, clawing at his shoulders and back with frantic hands, face flushed and slack with pleasure. He's so enthralled by the sinuous motions of Danny's torso and hips, surging and rolling like the waves of a flowing river.

"Oh yeah," Flack rasps against the other man's neck. "_Yeah_, that's it, let it go, babe -"

Flack grabs Danny's waist and spins them around so that Danny is propped up against the sink and he's the one rubbing and undulating his hips against Danny's, bending Danny backwards and kissing the man for all he's worth. He's already rock hard just from the sounds Danny's making, and oh _damn_, Danny's hard too, and he has to fucking feel Danny without all these _clothes_ right _now_ -

"_Uhh_ …"

Something's shifted in the tone of Danny's voice.

"Dan? You okay?" he says into Danny's ear, nuzzling the other man's bristly cheek.

Danny's motionless now, apart from the shivering, and it's not the type a person gets from pleasurable stimulation.

"Dizzy," Danny murmurs in a small voice. "Man, my body friggin' hates me. Cuts things off every time it starts gettin' _fun_."

Flack chuckles in understanding, then tightens his arms around Danny's midriff, rubbing comforting circles all over the guy's upper back with one hand. They've returned to the same pose they were in last night when they were in the living area; Danny resting on his shoulder and chest, clutching at the back of his shirt, and him with his head slanted on top of Danny's, rocking them back and forth.

"S'okay, you're not a hundred percent well yet, that's all."

"I blacked out last night, didn't I?" Danny mumbles after some time.

"Yeah," Flack replies. "Just for a couple a' seconds. Scared the crap outta me."

He senses Danny kiss him on the side of his neck, and he responds to it by stroking the back of Danny's head and neck. Danny likes that a lot, he knows.

The following five minutes trickles by with them basking in each other's presence, just holding one another, remembering what it is to be alive again. It's a huge effort for Flack to eventually release Danny from his encirclement and step backwards, out of the other man's personal space. Danny, in contrast, isn't letting go of his shirt, and is gazing up at him with sad puppy eyes.

A jolt travels up Flack's spine.

The last time he'd seen Danny's eyes appearing that way was that evening in the labs' locker room. He was so certain it was an act, nothing more than a charade to smash his defenses.

What if he'd been wrong?

What if he hadn't been so foolish, if he hadn't permitted his rage to overtake his sanity and warp his perception? Would they have split up if he had kept his big mouth shut and _seen_ and _listened_ instead?

Was it _his_ fault, then, that things turned out the way they did?

He purses his lips hard, squeezing his left temple with his fingertips.

_No_, a firm voice in his heart utters, _stop it. No more looking back at the past that can't be changed. It's over and done. _

_Look forward_.

_Live today_.

"Don?"

His eyes open wide. Huh, he doesn't recall shutting them.

Danny's eyes seem even bigger. The emotion Flack sees within them is a familiar one by now, one he wishes to banish from their existence for infinity. Fear has no place in a life of love.

"M'okay," he says, caressing Danny's cheek and chin with the back of his fingers. The stubble on Danny's lower face feels coarse on his skin. It's a sensation he enjoys very much.

Danny stares at him for a while, and asks out of the blue, "Are ya workin' today?"

The spontaneous change of subject makes Flack blink. Then, it becomes clear to him.

Ah. Danny's subtly fishing for information, attempting to get him to talk about what's bothering him. It is such an irony that he's trying to do the same thing to Danny, and Danny already has a head start on him.

"Nah. Day off," Flack answers coolly. He sucks in one long breath. Perhaps he's crazy or something, but the air always smells so … _good_ whenever Danny's close.

"Oh."

Flack hears the other's man unstated query in that single word.

_What do we do now?_

"Go on, go laze on the couch, watch TV or somethin'. I got a whole lotta DVDs in the shelf next to the TV, if ya wanna watch 'em," Flack says. "I'll just finish up here and be with you in a sec."

Danny still isn't letting go of his shirt.

And he is powerless in the other man's grasp.

In the past, he was the one who often demonstrated physical affection towards Danny in public. A touch of the arm or shoulder, maybe the lower back if he can get away with it. Maybe even an arm around the shoulders, in the appropriate circumstances. Danny would shoot insinuating, sensual glances at him instead, saving the touching, kissing, grinding and all out moaning and screaming for private, intimate hours.

He was the instigator of most, if not all, of their sexual encounters. Danny rarely made the first move. He never found fault with that though. It was a thrill to chase Danny who played hard to get, and Danny adored being the recipient of such attention, the focus of such relentless pursuit. They both knew, at the end of the day, Flack always got his man, and so did Danny.

To have Danny holding onto him this way, to see that the tables have turned, that Danny is chasing _him_ this time is a sobering reminder that things between them are no longer the same. They are on new grounds now. Territory they have yet to explore and cultivate, rife with weeds that must be dug up and thrown away.

But it's alright. They have time to do all that and more.

"It's okay, Danny," Flack murmurs, stepping forward to touch their foreheads together. "We got time." He gives the quiet man a gentle peck on the lips. "I ain't goin' anywhere."

The words seem to reassure Danny. After scrutinizing his face, Danny nods once, then ambles away to the living area, halting only for a moment at the entrance of the kitchen to glance back at him. Whatever Danny sees on his face, it's something that softens Danny's attractive features into a beautiful countenance.

The cold water from the tap alleviates the lust coursing through Flack's body as he completes the washing up. He's rather grateful he's on his own in the kitchen; another second more, and Danny would have been lying flat on the dining table with his clothes torn off, recovered from a fever or not. _That's_ how damn aroused he is.

"_Cool_ it," he scolds himself under his breath.

There are more important matters to attend to this morning.

There'll be time for making love afterwards.

About seven minutes later, having dried the plates and utensils and stored them, he saunters into the living room, much more composed. The television isn't switched on, and his laptop is closed like he left it on the low coffee table in front of the couch where Danny is sitting.

"Nothin' interestin' on TV, huh?"

Silence greets him.

He walks up to the sofa and quietly settles down on the cushions next to Danny. Danny is staring out the ceiling-to-floor windows, riveted by the Manhattan eastern skyline and the dark grayish-blue of the sky in the background. Flack shoots a glance at the analog clock hanging on the wall near the television set. It's almost seven in the morning, but according to an online sunrise and sunset calendar, dawn won't occur for another twenty minutes or so. The sunrise is commonly late during the winter.

"Look at that," Danny states in a voice filled with veneration. "That is one _hell _of a view."

Flack rests one arm on the back of the couch behind Danny. "Yeah, wait till ya see what it's like when the dawn comes."

He's yearning to place his arm around Danny's shoulders, except something in his mind is dissuading him from doing it. Okay, he has to give Danny space. He drags Danny into a cuddle or a hug, and they'll be so busy making out all over the furniture and the floor that they will barely have breath to talk.

And _talk_ is what Flack requires Danny to do.

He doesn't get Danny talking today, it'll become more and more challenging with each passing day that Danny doesn't, and he _knows_ Danny's a master at avoiding discussion of anything delicate in nature. What's more, the longer Danny doesn't talk about the events of the past seven years, the less likely it'll be of him ever learning the truth.

Like why Danny never called him once in all those years. Like why Danny had to journey back to New York city using a freaking _bus_. Like what happened between Danny and Lindsay that the guy wound up the way he is today.

With those scars on his arms. With that haunted expression in those big, blue eyes.

"Mommy called me up."

Flack stares hard at Danny's face in profile. Danny is looking forward at the plasma television now, eyes glazed over in recollection. Flack stays silent and waits for Danny to say more. Did the guy mean his mother recently called him, or that he was enlightening Flack on an incident from the past?

"She sounded strange," Danny says. "Like she believed somethin' bad was gonna happen to me or somethin'. Kinda a coincidence, ya know, 'cause I got clonked on the head with a brick while we were chasin' that perp in the Minelli case that day."

Flack shifts higher up on the couch, all ears now. He remembers that case. The vic had been shot in the head and chest in the back alley of a restaurant in Little Italy, and only he and Danny had been assigned to it. It was a clear cut investigation that got wrapped up in a day seeing as the perp actually showed his stupid face at the crime scene and made them pursue him down two blocks into some construction site. Flack would have been nice to the guy, if he hadn't hurled that brick at Danny's head and injured the detective.

Yes, he remembers the Minelli case, alright.

It had taken place mere days before Danny was caught in the subway shooting that killed Detective Minhaus. Truly an uncanny fluke, then, that Danny's mother had called her son with concern for his life right before it occurred.

"I thought it was gonna be the usual stuff, _worryin'_ 'bout me and whether I was _eatin'_ right and takin' _care_ of myself … but for some reason, she kept askin' whether I was seein' anybody."

Flack bites his lower lip. Danny _had_ been seeing somebody at the time. However, considering how nervous Danny had been about their relationship, he highly doubted Danny told his mother he was sleeping with his homicide detective colleague and friend. Who also happened to be a _man_.

"She wouldn't even let me _talk_. All she kept goin' on 'bout was that she was gettin' old and kept askin' me when I was gonna get _married_ and have _kids_."

Danny's brows are low in a mild frown.

"She never bugged me 'bout things like that before. Ya know what she's like, I always brought ya 'round to the house during the weekends for spaghetti."

Flack smiles at that. Yeah, Mrs. Messer's a sweet lady with serious cook-fu skills in the kitchen. She made the best spaghetti and meatballs with mozzarella cheese in town, hands down. It's a shame that he lost touch with her after Danny had left the city. He couldn't stomach the idea of hearing about Danny's new life with Lindsay in Montana from Danny's mother. As long as he didn't contact her, he would never have to correlate Danny's cheating and eventual departure with her. She'd have remained in his mind as someone related to Danny who didn't know Lindsay, someone who wouldn't remind him of the wrong committed against him, or what he lost.

"It was just … _weird_. The thing was, I couldn't get it outta my head, the things she was naggin' me 'bout. It kept buggin' me, and I started thinkin' real hard 'bout it all." Danny turns his head to look at Flack. "'Bout _us_."

Without being aware of it, Flack clenches one hand into a loose fist.

Oh geez, here it comes, the reason why Danny left him -

"Ya gotta believe me, Don, when we were still … when we had what we had, I was - I was _happy_. Really. You made me happy. They were some a' the best years of my life."

Danny's plucking at the hem of his sweater, in that twitchy way that suggests to Flack Danny isn't as unperturbed as he appears.

"But, it was like I suddenly couldn't stop thinkin' 'bout what would happen if people found out 'bout us. 'Bout our relationship. Wasn't worried 'bout _me_ 'cause, _c'mon_, I already had such a lousy rep from the start. The whole Tanglewood shit, people tellin' Mac not to hire me, and other cops thinkin' I'm a cop killer too … can't go lower than that."

Flack purses his lips. Mac had been _way_ out of line for throwing that into Danny's face once the Minhaus case was dealt with. Danny didn't deserve that, even though the incident _had_ been a real mess. Mac never saw the guilt Danny harbored due to the undercover detective's death. Mac never saw how acutely his lack of support had affected Danny.

But _he_ did.

And it had upset him to discover that Danny hadn't trusted _him_ either, at the time.

He should have spotted the branches of fear sprouting out then. He should have hacked them off when he had the chance.

"I was worried 'bout _you_."

Flack gazes deep into Danny's glossy eyes.

"_Me?_" he asks.

The ends of Danny's lips curl up in a cheerless smile.

"Yeah. You're the total _opposite_ a' me, Don. You're the son of a New York _legend_. You're _blue blood_. You got a _perfect_ record, ya got the _looks_ and the _personality_, ya got _everythin'_ goin' for ya. And me … I was just tyin' ya down with all my crap." Danny gestures with his hands at their surroundings. "Just _look_ at yerself. Look how _far_ you've made it."

Something hot ignites within Flack.

"So let me get this straight," he articulates in a deceptively calm voice. "You think that I'm where I am, that I achieved what I have … because _you were outta my life?_ Is that it?"

Danny is staring down at a spot on the floor near his feet, and is very quiet.

"You don't know that, Danny. You _don't_ know that."

"Can you honestly say that your life woulda turned out the same if I'd stayed?" Danny whispers.

Flack doesn't even hesitate.

"Yeah. I _can_."

Right away, Danny is staring at him with wide eyes.

"I _can_," Flack repeats. "Because I loved you then. _I still do_."

The silence looming over them is so thick that Flack can _taste_ it.

Danny's eyes are glistening, and even in the dimness of the living area, Flack sees Danny's neck ripple in a visible swallow.

"I never stopped lovin' you," Flack murmurs, never once looking away from the other man's features. "I mean it. I never stopped lovin' you, Danny, no matter what you may think."

The desire to enfold his arms around Danny strengthens tenfold when Danny bows his head low, concealing his face. His nails dig into the flesh of his palms. He can't do it. No yet, not until Danny's gotten everything out.

"I believe you," Danny whispers croakily. "But you were angry at me too."

It's a rhetorical statement.

"Yeah, I was. What you did hurt me like hell. Probably _worse_ than hell."

That sad smile has returned to Danny's lips.

"That was - that was what I hoped, ya know, 'cause I knew you'd be angry at me for havin' an affair behind your back. You'd be _pissed off_, you'd _hate_ my _guts_ and dump me and find somebody _better_." Danny raises his head a little and gazes at his own hands on his thighs. "You'd be free of me. Free to have a wife, kids … a _family_. Live a good life, without worryin' 'bout what other people think, without dealin' with me and all my problems." He lets out a mirthless chuckle. "And _you_ oughta know what a fucked up person I am, you of all people."

Flack closes his eyes, unable to bear the despair upon Danny's visage.

God, he was right, after all. If he'd just _listened_ and _read_ between the lines of the situation instead of falling so easily into Danny's scheme, then -

_Then the fear would still have been there_, his heart asserts, _he would have found some other means to push you away, because he believed he was doing it for your own good_.

He opens his eyes once more, and sees that Danny is watching him with such apprehensive eyes. Rigid. Shoulders hunched forward.

"There's just one problem with your theory," Flack says evenly. "I never gave a _shit_ what other people think 'bout me or my life. I still don't, and I never will."

Danny blinks.

"Dan, I've been open 'bout my bisexuality for years, _long_ before we got together. I was quiet 'bout it when I was a teenager, but at the time, it was already crazy 'nough tryin' to figure out who I was and what I wanted to do with my life, much less why I'm attracted to women _and_ men."

Flack pauses for a moment.

"Then I grew up, and realized that makin' myself live a _lie_ would be worse than any crap people could give me for being the way I am. Yeah, I might end up livin' the life most people consider 'normal' and yeah, people won't give me any grief if I got married with a woman and had kids or somethin' … But ya see, I do that, and I'd be lyin' to myself every day. I'd lyin' to _everybody_ 'round me. My entire damn _life_ would be a friggin' lie, and I'm only gonna live _once_ and it's _my_ life, so who the hell is anyone else to tell me how I should live it, huh? Who the hell is anyone else to tell _you_ how you should live _yours?_"

"I'm not strong like you," Danny replies in a tiny voice.

"Bullshit. You _are_. You just made the wrong choices, that's all."

"Yeah … I sure did, didn't I?"

Flack caves in to his longing to touch Danny, and stretches out his hand to stroke the side of Danny's face. Danny's eyelids flicker as he does so.

"Everybody makes mistakes, Danny."

For a few minutes, they're both quiet, sitting stationary where they are on the couch. The sky outside is beginning to lighten, the dark grey transforming into a dark blue hue.

Then, Danny sits upright.

"The first time I thought of the plan was after Hammerback told me Lindsay had a crush on me," the man says, staring at the blank television screen again.

One of Flack's eyebrows lifts. Huh, he certainly hadn't anticipated _that_.

"It surprised me. It just came outta the blue while he was handin' me some evidence in the morgue, and I thought he was _jokin'_, ya know? I mean, it was _Hammerback_. What would _he_ know 'bout Lindsay likin' me, right?" Danny scratches at his right collarbone, above the circular neckline of his sweater. "But the more I thought 'bout it, the more I figured it was the perfect thing to jumpstart it all … Hammerback starts tellin' people she had a crush on me, maybe he starts tellin' people _I _had a crush on her, and the rumors would go 'round the labs real quick."

"I didn't think things would move so fast. It was just a couple a' days afterwards, and I was already hearin' the other lab techs talk 'bout Lindsay and me. And before I knew it, Lindsay was talkin' more and more to me, even after I teased her and made her mad, and … she just made it so _easy_."

Flack releases a soft, non-committal sound from between his pursed lips. Thinking back to the time Lindsay first appeared, Danny's explanation so far does help to clarify why their relationship floundered so swiftly after her induction into the team. In all honesty, he didn't like Lindsay from the instant he met her. There was something about her that just didn't … sit right with him. Like he knew she was wearing a mask and hiding her true self beneath it, and nobody else did.

Not even Danny, who was supposedly the most paranoid and skeptical person on the block.

At least, that's what Flack had been thinking all these years till now. Now, he knows better. Danny probably knew all along that something was fishy about her too, although the guy chose to turn a blind eye to it in order to get his own ruse up and rolling.

Damn. _Another_ forewarning he should have picked up and inspected when he had the opportunity.

"I dunno, Don … I think maybe in the beginnin', there mighta been some real connection. Maybe it was the fact she was _different_. Girl from the countryside, different from a city girl, ya know? Maybe that's what I was really attracted to, the fact that she came from somewhere else. Maybe that's what it was for her too, that she mighta found me attractive only 'cause I'm a city guy or somethin', the kinda guy she wouldn't have met where she came from."

Danny falls silent for a minute.

"I guess I … _used_ her. And in some way, she was usin' me too. I just never realized it until it was too late."

Danny shakes his head; it is a motion filled with deep-rooted contempt aimed at himself.

"I'm such a fuckin' coward, aren't I?"

Flack glances out the living room windows, watching more light brighten up the sky. He can see fuzzy shapes of clouds scattered in bulbous clusters here and there. It's going to be a dazzling dawn this morning.

"Danny," he says gently after a while. "You coulda _talked_ to me. We coulda talked things out. Sure, I woulda been really unhappy 'bout endin' things … but I woulda done it, if it meant that you were happy at the end of the day. Wha, did ya think I was gonna _beat _you up or somethin'?"

Danny's cackle is mordant and joyless.

"You don't understand." Danny swivels his head and stares at him. "I didn't want to say goodbye."

It takes a moment for the deeper meaning of Danny's last statement to sink into his mind.

_I didn't want to say goodbye, because I never wanted to leave you._

The grief, the _loss_ he feels upon this realization is crushing in its intensity. He has to exert every drop of willpower to maintain a poised expression.

If only he had bothered to find out why Danny had been pushing him away. If only he had looked beyond his own pride and hurt, and seen the truth behind the fabrication Danny had spun. If only he had fought for their relationship, for the love they had -

If only. The most terrible, excruciating phrase in the dictionary of life.

A phrase that should - no, _must_ - no longer belong in _his_ dictionary, not if he is determined to start anew with Danny and leave the past behind.

"On the last night I was here in New York, all I could think 'bout was how much I was gonna miss the city. How much I was gonna miss _you_," Danny says in a voice that has become more steady. "But like ya said to me, I made my choice. I dug my own grave, and I was gonna have to live with it." He shakes his head again. "By then, there was no turnin' back for me. Things had already gone too far, and you had already moved on."

"I was happy for you, that ya found somebody better, like Hawkes. He's a good guy. A _great_ guy. I knew he'd treat you right … better than _me_, that's for sure. So, in a sense, me leavin' _had _been a good thing."

Flack looks down at their legs. He and Danny are now sitting on the sofa with their legs slanted at a forty-five degree angle towards each other, and their knees are just inches apart. He is suddenly finding that space between their knees very intriguing.

He can't deny that his relationship with Hawkes had been amazing. He had gained so much knowledge and insight from the years he'd spent in Hawkes' company, many experiences big and small that have contributed to him being the person he is in the present.

"It's true that I wouldn't have ended up with Sheldon if ya hadn't left. That doesn't mean that I was glad that you did," he responds. "Life's just … unpredictable. And there's a reason for everythin'."

For the first time since their conversation started, Danny displays a genuine smile that diminishes the despondency on his mien.

"I used to say that."

"I know." Flack shows a small smile of his own. "That's why I remember it."

Danny's smile widens, then fades away as his expression becomes somber once more.

After a short time, the man says, "I tried really hard to like Montana. There was no turnin' back for me anymore, so I had no choice except to go ahead with what I'd planned out … leave New York, start a new life in Montana with Lindsay, live the _American dream_. Ya know, live in a nice, suburban house, have 2.4 kids, have a nine to five job, all that jazz."

"I tried so hard to like Montana, I did. I guess I shoulda known how things were gonna be, seein' how much I already dreaded leavin' even before I actually did … It was _hell _from day one." Danny gesticulates with his hands, his brows furrowed. "I tried to _be_ like them, ya know? Especially when Lindsay introduced me to her family. I _tried_. And I _know_ they knew I was tryin', 'cause all I was hearin' was, 'Don't worry, you'll be one of us in no time!'"

Danny slaps his hands on top of his thighs, palms down.

"I dunno how to explain it, Don. Of all the things, _that_ was what got to me. It was like it _woke_ me up or somethin'. I mean, there I was, tryin' to adapt as much as I could, to be like the people 'round me, and all of a sudden, I'm thinkin', 'Why do I hafta _change_ myself to be accepted? What's wrong with being _me?_'"

Something inside Flack's chest swells.

_Good for you, Danny_, he thinks with gratification, _good for you_.

"And … I dunno. Suddenly, I was _mad_. Mad that I was still feelin' like a complete foreigner even after years a' being there. That I had to be somebody I _wasn't_ in order to fit in. Most of all, I was mad that _she_ expected me to be somebody I wasn't."

A heavy sigh leaves Danny's lips.

"Man, things between Lindsay and me went to the crapper in less than _two years _after we moved to Montana. It just … deteriorated like lightning. At first, it _seemed_ like things were gonna be okay. Everythin' was new, including' our relationship. New place, new people, new job. I guess that made things interestin' for me for a while, and I thought that, maybe, it was gonna work out after all. Maybe I could _do_ this."

Danny inhales deeply, then pulls up his legs onto the couch and sits with them folded and his knees up to his chest. It's a much more relaxed position, the usual position Danny shifts into whenever he's in the mood for talking.

It's a very positive sign to Flack.

"Once the honeymoon phase was over, that was when it all went to shit. It didn't happen overnight. It was more like … the thrill of the chase was gone. For both of us. We caught each other, so what's _left?_ Chase was over, so now we had the time to get to know each other more. And … I guess she didn't like what she saw in me. That I wasn't the guy she thought I was. No skin off my nose though. Turned out that she wasn't the woman I thought she was either, not by a long shot."

"It was _nuts_. S'was like she expected me to _know_ what she wanted, _all_ the time. Like I'm supposed to be this _mind reader _or somethin'. If I didn't say what she wanted to hear, she'd get mad at me. If I didn't do things the way she wanted, she'd get mad too, and sulk all day and make me feel like crap. Sometimes, she'd try to sweet talk me or come onto me like sex was all it took to - to _buy_ me. It pissed me off so bad. I'd brush her off, and then she'd go back to being this … hateful, angry person. It was like I didn't know who she was anymore."

Danny shrugs one shoulder.

"I guess I never _did_ know her to begin with."

Flack simply nods. It appears that _no one _who'd worked with Lindsay here in New York ever knew the real her. She never stuck around long enough for people to do that.

Fakes never last for long in the Big Apple, anyhow.

"I tried, Don, I _tried_, but I just couldn't be the guy she expected me to be. I just couldn't be _somebody else_."

"If she ever cared 'bout you, she would _never_ have expected you to be somebody else," Flack says. "People who love you, they love you for who you are, Dan."

The last wall standing between them and freedom from what went before is crumbling, he can sense it. The bricks are falling away one by one, and another vanishes as Danny slides a hand across the cushions to clasp his nearest hand, entwining their fingers.

Flack gazes at their joined hands, marveling yet again at how right it looks and feels.

"I know that now," Danny replies, giving his hand a squeeze.

A single question pops into Flack's head out of nowhere.

"Danny … why did you come back to New York on a _bus?_" Flack smirks in faint amusement. "Always pegged you for being a _plane_ person."

Danny's eyes instantaneously become shuttered.

"Didn't have the cash to buy a plane ticket."

Flack sends the other man a sharp glance.

"I shoulda seen it comin'. All that pressurin' to quickly save up money to buy a house, to get married, get _joint bank accounts _... I shoulda seen it comin'. I was so _stupid_."

Flack's eyes narrow in growing comprehension. Is Danny saying what he _thinks_ he is?

"Are you tellin' me that Lindsay _took_ your _money?_"

Danny doesn't say anything for a few seconds.

"No. Not really. _He_ did."

Flack's eyes narrow even more. "Who's _he?_"

Rage is blazing in Danny's blue eyes.

"Daniel Armstrong. My ex-partner back in Bozeman." The muscles in Danny's lower jaw twitch. "The guy Lindsay had an affair with behind my back."

And suddenly, Flack is feeling the same fury inside himself.

"Is he the sonofabitch who gave ya those _scars?_" he grinds out.

Danny is rubbing at his forearms at once, over the sleeves of his sweater. He's looking anywhere aside from Flack's face now. He shakes his head in a negative.

"No … no, though you could say he played a part in it," Danny mumbles. "This old lady who lived alone was murdered in her home. Her throat was slashed. During' the investigation, we found out that she liked helpin' homeless people out by payin' them to do house repairs and stuff like that, if they knew how. After a whole lotta interviews, we narrowed the list of suspects to one homeless guy who was a drug addict too, and always stopped by her house for free food and warm lodging when it got too cold outside. We found out where he hung 'round on the streets and went to get him."

"It was almost midnight by then. I was the first to go into the alley where the perp was, and Armstrong was supposed to be watchin' out for me. We were both armed, and we were both sure the perp's only weapon was a blade, so I thought it was gonna be an easy arrest."

Flack notices that Danny is rubbing harder at his forearms, that his toes are curled inwards on the sofa cushions. The stress is escalating inside Danny again. This may possibly be the very first time Danny had spoken about the confrontation to _anyone_.

"He jumped outta _nowhere_, scared the livin' _shit _outta me, and he was so _strong_, like he was as strong as _five_ guys in one. I think he was high on drugs when he attacked me … he was screamin' nonsense and _slashin'_ at me with this knife and - and I couldn't even get a shot 'fore he slammed me onto the ground and I lost my gun -"

Danny's shaking his head over and over, and the frenzied movement prompts Flack into wrapping his hand around the back of Danny's neck, pressing on the taut muscles there in reassurance. The physical connection rapidly placates Danny.

Danny lets out a shuddering breath, then says, "To be honest, I didn't really know what was happenin' to me after the perp knocked me down. All I knew was that my arms were hurtin' _so_ bad, and I could feel this hot wetness all over my arms and my face and shirt and I was screamin' for help, for Armstrong to _shoot_ the guy but … he never did. He wasn't there."

"The only reason I got outta the fight alive was 'cause I managed to find my gun again and shoot the perp in the chest. Then, I guess I blacked out. When I woke up again, I was in the hospital and, _God_, I still can't _believe_ it … people were _congratulatin'_ Armstrong for _savin' my life_."

Danny has covered his face with his hands.

"He told everybody that there had been more than one suspect at the scene, two guys instead a' just one. That he was chasin' the other guy and he had confirmation from me that I was fine on my own. He said the other guy escaped, and he returned to the alley and shot the perp who was attackin' me. I tried to set the record straight but nobody would listen to me ... not even Lindsay. I had a concussion too, and Armstrong used it as reasonable doubt to question my side of the story when I was adamant there had only been one suspect, and that Armstrong hadn't backed me up at all. The perp died before the ambulance arrived, so it was basically my word versus Armstrong's."

Danny huffs out a caustic chuckle.

"And of course, they never found 'the other guy'."

The wrath Flack feels surges so high that his hands, his whole _body_ is trembling with it.

What the _fuck _kind of detective allows a dangerous suspect to assault his partner? And _not assist them in any way?_ And worst of all, make up some _bullshit story_ to seize all the glory for himself?

If this pathetic Armstrong piece of shit ever has the nerve to cross his path, he'll rip the jerk apart with his bare hands. _Literally_.

"Is this lousy Armstrong bastard still _alive?_" Flack flashes a lethal, cold grin. "I think I might just pay a visit to Bozeman and say hi. With my _fists_. And my _gun_."

"He ain't worth it, Don. You're too good a man to get stuck in the revenge business, specially 'cause of me."

Danny has moved closer to him. Their sides and hips are touching, and Flack finally places his arm around Danny's shoulders and envelops the man in a powerful hug.

"He comes here to _my_ city, and I _swear_ I'll hunt him down and make him suffer for _every_ wrong he's done 'gainst you." Flack growls. "The sonofabitch will get the _worst_. In _spades_."

He means what he says to the marrow of his bones.

Danny doesn't make a sound; instead, he reacts to Flack's promise of vengeance by tucking his head under Flack's chin and rubbing at Flack's belly. Flack, in turn, caresses Danny's arms. It's been so long since they cuddled together like this, and yet … it feels as if they had never parted from one another.

Indeed, the invisible power that bonds them is far above the mortal limitations of time and distance.

"Armstrong and I were at odds from the moment we met," Danny murmurs against his neck. "It was like we hated each other on sight. I think the only reason we tolerated each other in the first few years was because he and Lindsay were friends. She was the one who introduced us, and she kept tryin' to convince me that he was a nice guy. Armstrong also had some connection to the chief CSI, so that's how we became partners."

"I never got why he wanted to be my partner even though he disliked me so much. Okay, yeah, he was real careful 'bout showin' any animosity towards me in public and people never suspected anythin', but he never hesitated to tell me what he really thought of me when we were alone."

Danny sighs.

"I just never thought of the possibility that Armstrong would have an affair with Lindsay behind my back. It didn't make sense, ya know? If Lindsay was so keen on me movin' to Bozeman with her, to start a new life together and all that … why would she go and sleep with another guy, right? 'Course, that was in the beginnin'. Later on, things were so bad that we hardly talked to each other. When we did, it always ended up 'bout why things weren't going the way she thought they would, why I wasn't doin' this or that. I was just so sick of it all by then. I didn't want anythin' to do with her, not unless she was willin' to hear me out for a change."

"I think that was when they started sleepin' together. It probably went on for years, 'cause I never knew it until a couple a' months ago. I dunno. Maybe I suspected somethin' … just never wanted to acknowledge it."

Flack senses Danny nestling his face into the crook between his neck and shoulder.

"The shower was on when I walked into the apartment. I figured it was Lindsay in the bathroom, so I didn't think much 'bout it. Went into the kitchen to get a drink of water and then, I went into the bedroom to change."

Danny's gulp is audible to Flack's ears.

"That was when I came face to face with Armstrong. He was sittin' on the rumpled bed, naked and talkin' on his cel phone to somebody. I was so shocked that I couldn't say a word. I actually thought I was in some kinda Twilight Zone episode. When he realized I was there … he didn't even act like he was caught red-handed or anythin'. He just sat there and kept talkin' till he was done, and then Lindsay showed up at the bedroom door in nothin' except a towel."

"She didn't expect to see me back from work so soon. I could see it on her face. She didn't say anythin' either, but Armstrong just started laughin', like it was the funniest shit ever. He didn't even bother wearin' his clothes and he just walked right up to me and said, 'Don't even think about making a fuss, _faggot_.'"

Flack's arms tighten fiercely around Danny.

That damned bastard.

That disgusting, two-faced lowlife of a _bastard_.

"That was the end for me, Don. That was the last straw." Danny's voice has become very gravely. "It felt so fuckin' _good_ to smash his face in with my fist, after all the crap he was puttin' me through. For all his bravado, he went down like a sack a' potatoes."

_That's my boy_, Flack thinks with pride, _that's my Danny_.

"I didn't say a thing to Lindsay. Hadn't had a thing to say to her in a _long_ time. I just grabbed my duffel bag and some of my clothes and personal stuff and walked out, and never looked back. And ya know what I remember most 'bout that? She never came after me. Didn't even call out my name. She didn't give a damn at all that I was walkin' out on her for good. _God_, I'd wasted so many years of my life with her. For _nothin'_."

Danny coughs, and then says, "I went straight back to the labs and resigned on the spot. I didn't stick 'round for the shit to hit the fan. Went to the bank, and found out all my money was _gone_. Lindsay had withdrawn _everythin'_ from our joint account. So all I had was a few hundred bucks in my wallet, and all I could think of … was comin' home."

Flack runs his fingers through Danny's shorn hair. Right now, he's feeling an unsettling combination of compassion and sorrow for Danny's plight together with an incalculable amount of infuriation at the two people who made the man he loves suffer so much. He hasn't even met this Armstrong jerk, and already he despises the pitiful example of a man. As for Lindsay … had he known the full scope of her selfishness and her capability of such deceit, he would have done everything he could to keep her away from the people he loved. The people he _still_ loves.

He's _furious_ with her, alright. She did what no one else was able to do, not even an armed killer or a group of gangsters could.

She had succeeded in breaking Danny's spirit.

The good news is, Flack's going to be around to see to it that Danny heals from the damage she's wreaked upon him. No matter how long it takes.

Before he can speak, Danny sits up and says, "I deserved it all."

The four words stun him.

"Deserved _what?_" Flack asks, his eyes wide in disbelief. "To live in a place that you didn't want to? To be treated like _crap_ by Lindsay and Armstrong? What, to have them _fuckin' _'round behind yer _back?_"

Danny has shifted back to his former position on the couch, a forearm's distance away from Flack. Danny stares at the floor.

"That's what I did to _you_, remember?"

"Danny, _no_, that's in t-"

"Don't deny it, Don. That's exactly what I did to you. I cheated on you. _You_, the guy who didn't deserve it in any way. I did it to you, and now, karma's gotten me back for it. I deserved it. I deserve to be alone. I deserve to lose everythin'. It's what I get for treatin' my brother the way I have. I pushed Louie aside _every_ time he needed me, even when I knew I coulda helped him, and now I know what it feels like _being_ him, to have _nobody_ to turn to … not even yer _family_ -"

Flack's staring at Danny, but what he sees is that fear rearing its ugly head again, towering over them, threatening to consume them like it once did.

_No_. Not this time.

Not _ever_.

Flack grabs Danny by the upper arms and shakes the man hard.

"_Listen_ to me! That's _not _how it is! You _don't_ deserve any of it!"

Danny's rambling on to himself now, cupping the sides of his face with his hands.

"I deserved every shitty thing that happened to me. You were better off _without_ me all this time, and ya got _Hawkes_, so what the hell do you want with _m_-"

Flack's patience disappears like a puff of smoke. That's it, he's going to have to resort to the old-time technique of getting through to Danny.

"_Hawkes is MARRIED!_"

His bellow echoes in the vast living area of his apartment.

Danny's eyes are so wide that the whites are noticeable around the blue irises.

"Wh-what?"

"That's right, _damnit_," Flack rasps after sucking in a deep breath. "Hawkes got married earlier this year. In fact, I just visited him and his _wife_ and their _newborn baby boy_ last week. And, _no_. I dunno how the _hell_ ya came up with that dumb reasonin' of you deservin' everythin' that's happened to you since you left, but that's _bullcrap!_"

"I …"

Danny suddenly turns his head to stare at something on the wall behind Flack. Frowning, Flack follows Danny's line of sight and realizes that Danny is looking at the collection of photographs there, the pictures of his life for the last seven years. He hastily revolves back to study Danny's visage.

_Oh_, no. He _knows_ that look -

Danny doesn't have to open his mouth to speak to him. The man's glistening eyes are already uttering a wealth of words.

_I don't deserve to be here._

_I don't deserve your kindness._

_I don't deserve you._

"Danny -"

Danny bounds so fast from the couch that Flack is still sitting on the cushions, his face slack with astonishment, by the time Danny dashes across the living room floor towards the guest bedroom. Another precious second flies by before it strikes Flack to the core what Danny means to do.

_Thank you, Ma, for givin' me the genes for long legs_, Flack thinks as he sprints after Danny. He's at the doorway of the guest bedroom in a split second, and something clenches hard in the left side of his chest at Danny scrambling around the room and chucking his things into his duffel bag.

"Oh no, you _don't!_"

He pounces onto the kneeling man, hell bent on stopping Danny from running away, stopping Danny from making another big mistake.

_Nononononono, no, not gonna let fear win again, NO -_

For a man who almost toppled over unconscious twice in less than twenty-four hours, Danny is more energetic and aggressive than Flack ever anticipated. He has to throw his entire body on top of Danny's just to keep the thrashing guy pinned on the floor. He thanks God and his mother for his long legs a second time as he uses them to hinder Danny from kicking him. Tears spring to his eyes the moment one of Danny's fists hurtles into his side, directly where his kidney is. _Fuck_, Danny knows where to hit -

"Lemme go, I don't deserve you, _lemme GO!_"

Flack manages to seize Danny's wrists. Another loud roar erupts from Danny's gaping mouth when he restrains Danny's arms and effectively immobilizes the red-faced man beneath him. For a while, Danny is unmoving, chest rising and falling from rapid breaths. Then, the guy bursts into a flurry of motion, bucking his lower body in an ambush attempt to throw Flack off, but Flack had foreseen the likelihood of Danny trying that.

"C'mon, Danny, stop fightin' me, _please_."

He doesn't have a clue whether it's what he said or the evenness of his voice that reaches Danny. One instant, Danny's struggling underneath him with all his might. The next, the man is limp on the floor, arms askew, face turned away.

There's something about the way Danny is exposing one side of his face that troubles Flack. He extends one hand towards Danny's cheek, and stiffens when Danny flinches … and then deliberately presents his face once more.

As if he's waiting to be _punched_.

Flack hastily climbs off Danny. Oh God, did Danny really think he'd _do_ that? _Hit_ him?

"_Danny_."

Flack heaves the other man up to a sitting pose. Danny is in a completely reverse state from just minutes ago; docile and passive, prepared to accept his fate at Flack's hands.

"Danny, look at me. Please."

He waits and hopes that Danny hasn't shut him out.

A fleeting second later, Flack is gazing into those beloved blue eyes that are so downcast and resigned. He cups his hands on Danny's cheeks.

The time has come for the final step.

The final blow to flatten that wall of trepidation and misgivings.

The final row to bring them onto the shores of a new journey in life.

The final words that will cut away what remains of the infection of regret in their souls, and heal them both, at last.

"I forgive you."

It is as if time itself halts upon Flack declaring those three words, the three greatest words in the universe. There is a light within him now, a light that is even more blinding than that of the dawn that illuminates the heavens outside with glorious, awe-inspiring colors of intense golds and rich, deep reds. The light is also in Danny's eyes, in the windows to the man's soul that are reflecting absolute amazement.

"I forgive you, Danny, do ya hear me?" Flack murmurs, voice hoarse from emotion. "_I forgive you_."

They kneel together on the floor as one person in each other's embrace. The moisture in Flack's eyes blurs the sunrise beyond the windows of the bedroom, but it is no less stunning to him. He senses dampness seeping into his shirt as well, dampness that comes from Danny's tears as the man weeps against his chest, whispering, "I'm sorry," again and again and releasing more of his anguish with each time.

Flack strokes Danny's head and back with slow, tender touches, and thinks about how wonderful it is for them to be in the light. The sunshine is saturating everything with vivid color and vitality. Danny's hair is turned a startlingly fair brown, and if Flack looks close enough, he'll see some strands of grey and white hair among the brown ones. It is a sight that makes him smile.

Yes, it will be nice to grow old with Danny.

It will be nice, too, to share many more dawns much like this one, dawns that signify a new day.

A new chance.

A new beginning.

**xiv. "It's the heart that really matters in the end."**

At approximately the same global time in Beijing, China, a mother is singing softly to her sleeping baby as she gazes outside the window, waiting for her husband to return home from work. In Warsaw, Poland, a teenager is celebrating her sixteenth birthday and wishes for her departed mother to be smiling down at her from heaven as she blows out the candles.

In Johannesburg, Africa, a young woman in a business suit bumps into an old childhood friend and is changed forever when she looks into his eyes for the first time. In Rio de Janeiro, a father and husband awakens to the touch of his wife, and his smile is as bright as the sun that rises outside the window of their bedroom.

And in the United States of America, in a place called New York city, there are two men lying on a bed in the guest room of a penthouse apartment located in Manhattan. One of them is awake, leaning on the headboard of the bed as he gazes down with immense love at the other man who is dozing beside him. He is dressed in a simple t-shirt and cotton trousers that are evidently wrinkled and slept in, and his dark, thick hair is ruffled. There is a tender smile arching his lips, for in his mind, he is already planning a trip for both of them to Canada in a few weeks' time. It is where he hopes to sign a lifelong covenant with the person of his heart, who had answered a resounding, "Yes!" to his proposal, and is holding one of his hands while he slumbers.

As for the other man, who is shorter and garbed in a circular-necked sweater and jeans, he is sleeping peacefully on his side, facing away from the windows of the bedroom and the brilliant sunlight cascading in. His stubbly face was once lined by unhappiness and remorse, but now, the contours have faded away for neither shame nor nightmares plague him anymore. His nap this morning is dreamless. The skin around his closed eyes are puffy and red. The ruddiness will wane with time, like his torment has.

And like the taller man in bed with him, there is a smile upon his lips too. He is at peace with himself, at long last, for he no longer feels thorns but the rose petals of forgiveness beneath his cheek.

**Fin.**


End file.
